Poor Mary Poem by poppy miller


The fly, the fly; with his quick flashing eye, 

Didst give me a run for my money.

As I sat in the sun with my coated bread bun

He ran, all over my honey.



Such words did I utter while he ran o'er the butter, 

So I picked up my swatter and thrust.

But he ducked here and there as I fell from my chair

And my bottom hit hard on the dust.



Now seething with rage at this meddlesome page, 

I rolled up my sleeves and swore war.

I went into attack with this blue bottle back, 

But he laughed in my face like before.



By now I was sweating while he flit round betting

He'd conquer when his fun he had had, 

But I took the bet and swore I would get, 

This menace that was driving me mad.



I leapt to my feet as he began to retreat

But all I hit was the air; 

Till he fancied he'd flutter back to my butter

And I collared him right then and there.



Ah but the butter did splat and did splutter

With the heat from the warm morning sun.

On my body it was seeping as I sat a-weeping

Worn out ere the day had begun.



.So now you know why poor Mary sat a-weeping on a bright summer's day.