Classic Poem

Upon a Bald Man's shining crown
 A wingèd fly alit:
With legs apart and evil neck bent down,
 The Creature bit.

The Man, to slay the Insect, gave
 Himself a slap in vain—
Whereat the Fly: “And art thou such a knave
 As to disdain

“Thy body, temple of thy soul
 That dwells, O Man, inside?
Or hast thou never practised self-control?”—
 The Man replied:

“With my own self I'll make my peace,
 Knowing my own intent;
And I'll repair ere long with cooling grease
 This accident.

“But thou, but thou, pestiferous,
 I still would gladly drub,
Impertinent, ill-favored little Cuss,
 Beelzebub,

“Who vilely suckest human veins,—
 Even though it bred
Immedicable, self-inflicted pains
 To smite thee dead.”

MORAL

This fellow's sorry fit of pique,
 Alas, too plainly tells
How man prefers his vengeance for to wreak
 Before all else.