This is not a poem as much as self-therapy, from watching the great white hunter track down and kill a poor, defenseless housefly.

My wife saw a fly in the house.
She knocked his wings off.
Now, he is a walk.

(I love that joke!)

It was time to relax a bit.
I was lying in my bed one night,
I was trying to go to sleep.
A buzzing gave me quite a fright.

I looked up at the ceiling.
A fly circled around my head.
I really don’t like flies.
But my wife wants him dead.

I try to say “Live and let live.”
My wife says “Live and let die.”
She has her trusty swatter.
My wife will kill this little fly.

She started swinging wildly.
The dog dove under the bed.
They don’t like her swatter.
I pulled the covers over my head.

Next stanza is in Phil Rizzuto’s voice.
Swing! .. and a miss!
Swing! .. and a miss!
Wow! That one’s outta here!

A fly never flies in a straight line.
Unless, propelled by swatter.
In that case, it’s a fast, straight line.
Leading it to the slaughter.

My wife killed a little fly.
I wish that it would fall.
If it hangs on until morning,
I will scrape it off the wall.