There was a little fly,
And it flew into my soup,
And as it dived right in,
It gave a little whoop.

I called the waiter over,
And I told him of my plight,
And I talked about the fly,
And the ending of its flight.

He said, “It’s still alive,
And it’s flapping tiny wings,
And stirring up your soup,
And making froth and things”.

“A frothy soup is extra”,
He said and gave a grin.
As he poked it with his finger,
and pushed the fly right in.

The fly then stopped its flapping,
And I knew that it was dead.
So I poured the soup and body,
Upon the waiter’s head.

© 2010 dick Underwood

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Dick Underwood