Is that a black mote I espy,
Or a still, simpering fly?
Breathing the words of our king,
So soft the susurations ring
That I must strain to hear
And still it come not clear?
Must I sit and wonder
Of I've lived asunder
When the tiny, dark vocalist
Rests calmly from Life's cold jest
On the white wall adjacent
To me?  Oh! If only I knew what it meant
When he lay glassy and grey
In the receding light of day -
I bet, dare I say,
He doesn't matter in the fall -
He doesn't!  No...
Not at all.