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Musca Domestica Post by :welove Category :Poems Author :Bert Leston Taylor Date :October 2011 Read :2592

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Musca Domestica

Baby bye, here's a fly,
We will watch him, you and I;
Lest he fall in Baby's mouth,
Bringing germs from north and south.
In the world of things a-wing
There is not a nastier thing
Than this pesky little fly;--
So we'll watch him, you and I.

See him crawl up the wall,
And he'll never, never fall;
Save that, poisoned, he may drop
In the soup or on the chop.
Let us coax the cunning brute
To the tempting Tanglefoot,
Or invite his thirsty soul
To the poison-paper bowl.

I believe with six such legs
You or I could walk on eggs;
But he'd rather crawl on meat
With his microbe-laden feet.
Eggs would hardly do as well--
He could not get through the shell;
Better far, to spread disease,
Vegetables, meat, or cheese.

There he goes, on his toes,
Tickling, tickling Baby's nose.
Heaven knows where he has been,
And what filth he's wallowed in.
Drat the nasty little wretch!
He's the deuce and all to ketch.
Ah! He's settled on the wall.
Now the thunderbolt shall fall!

Baby bye, see that fly?
We will swat him, you and I.

(The end)
Bert Leston Taylor's poem: Musca Domestica

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The Custer Wail The Custer Wail

The Custer Wail
Dead! Where the bold and braveBlend in one bloody grave;Dead! With no coward clayWeltering in gore that day. Dead! Dead! Ah!--Dead to me.Dead! With his boys in blue,Baptized in bloody dew.Dead! Where his enemyFled from his fearless eye. Dead! Dead! Ah!--Dead to me.Dead! Like a meteor,Flashed o'er the field of war.Dead! With immortal pride,Glorious and glorified. Dead! Dead! Ah!--Dead to me.Dead! Where the captives singSaved by his rifle's ring.Dead! Where the painted braveBled by his gory glaive. Dead! Dead! Ah!--Dead to me.Dead! Where the feathered gameFell at his deadly aim.Dead! Where the buffaloFound him a gallant foe.

Home! Home! Home! Home!

Home! Home!
Home! Home! Man may roamWhile the blood of life is brimming,While the head's with glory swimming;But, when Love and Life are over,Bring him to the village clover, Home! Home! Home! Home! Bring him home,Where the songs of sad hearts shrive him,Where remorse no more shall rive him,Where the ever weeping willowMoults to make its leaves his pillow, Home! Home! Home! Home! He is home,Where his song was ever sounding,Where his blood was ever bounding,Here, at last, he leaves his madness,All