Sonnet CXXXVII

The swatter, blue and plastic genocide,
is resting in my bathroom cupboard’s bed.
So many flies from it did quickly hide,
but in the end they lost their priceless heads.

A mark remains upon my window’s side
where once before the swatter swiftly tread.
A deadly weapon filled with deadly pride,
a testament and warning from the dead.

So crude and cruel. But swatters kill the flies
that kill me with their loathsome, buzzing noise.
Thank goodness for my cunning, wicked means!
Without it, flies would come to eat my eyes,
my nose, my skin in death…their graceful poise
abandons them, and in revenge, they feast.