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.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye