The Dinner Fly



It is better to eat than be eaten...

Oh, Widow, Widow on the wall,

How does your webbing weave?

Or how is it your belly, red,

Can stealthily deceive?


Or how is it your hourglass

Does not sift endless sand,

And yet, time flies in silent cries

As life ends in your hands?


Are you around the dead of night

As nightmares follow suit

In lush cocoons of silken thread,

Intended to dilute?


And how is it you comfort them,

A bug inside the strand,

Awaiting fangs, a toothy grin,

Unleashed at your command?


When will the feast at last be done,

My body cannot wait,

So do me in, come on, dive in,

And leave my form to fate!


“Have patience, dear.” The Widow says,

“My lips will calm you so.

Enjoy your last; I end my fast,

And will not let you go.


A question will not matter by

The time our time is done.

So just relax, you little snack,

For mealtime has begun!”


Oh dreary me, oh dreary you!

I close my eyes and die!

I wish I was the Widow and

Not me, the dinner fly!




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