Sonnet CXXXII

Escaping human wickedness, a fly
decided foolishly one fateful night
inside a shining lamp to there abide.

And eaten by the light bulb, he did fry,
the putrid smell of burning flesh a fright;
the humans flew and quickly fled to hide.

Thus craftiness earned no reward for him
and won’t for you, my crafty little friend.
The death of this poor fly was but a hymn
to honesty, a parable to mend
the wicked hearts where goodness starts to dim.
For as a little fly had perished then,
so too shall you. You’ll meet a fate as grim,
an equal wickedness to shape your end.