When the Spider shot the Fly
She cradled him until he died;
In her arms, his body lie
Fat’lly wounded, & certain to
Sink beneath the undertow
Of Styx River’s rapid flow.
Mercy! Begged the dying pest
For no bug is born Heaven bless’t,
But doomed to void when laid to rest -
Must’ring strength to toss & thrash,
Lest he’s stung by Reaper’s lash
When dying breath has drawn its last.
The Spider hushed the panicked bug,
Then wrapped with web the gadfly snug:
“I am the Spider, and you are the Fly,
Arachne & Beelzebub - one must die.”
The Spider ate then the trembling head
Of the Fly that she shot dead.