A fitting fate for a fly:
	trapped between
	a window and its screen.

A fitting fate for a fly,
	a fitting way to die:
baking in the sun,
	baking... thin and dry.

A fitting fate for a fly:
	caught in a snare, no way to flee.
This vile vermin that I so hate -
	imprisoned here, now is its fate.

A fitting fate for a fly:
	to sadly play its long goodbye.
It paces anxiously around,
	then paces again the same old ground.

For this sad fly a fitting fate:
	a day of sun fire burning hot.
	No flying to a shaded spot -
		just burn in burning sun till late.

For this hot fly, now baking dry -
	no respite of a moist refuge.
	Instead, the endless sun's deluge
		of light is the avenging blight.

For, by the time one day is done,
	the baking of relentless sun
has turned the fly to lifeless shell -
	burnt dry from one day's fiery hell.

Now, settled there, base of the sill.
	Now, empty there - lifeless and still.
No flying for the fated fly -
	too late for one fated to die.

This is the fitting fate, brought on -
	acted upon its guilty kind.
	The sentence passed inside my mind,
		adjudged its kind to be no more.

Why, from my tone you might surmise
	the extent to which I so despise
these creatures of, yet modest size,
	such wretched pests, these cursed flies!

For years, my pet's unfitting fate
	at the hands of flies nurtured this hate.
I watched my hound fight for relief
	from stable flies' blood-sucking grief.

Now, sweet revenge has come to me.
	I watched the fly bake dry with glee.
An act of torture by proxy -
	no hand from me to set it free.

Indeed, a fitting fate for a fly:
	trapped between
	a window and its screen.