To my endless amusement the Scribe (aka “mom” or “Love”) doth endeavour to shield me from nature’s lowliest winged pests.
She means well …
Sonnet XV … Fly, away!
On summer days when temperatures loom high
And wind hath ceased its blast of cooling swath,
Protect myself must I against the flies
Whose busy buzzing doth incur my wrath.
With tail swats wrest th’blighters from my skin
And kick mine belly oft to bid them leave.
Dismayed am I when they return to sin,
And thus engage a trick up equine sleeve.
In truth my Love despairs at this device
As to the paddock she hath led me clean.
But driven mad with flies wherefore look nice
If silky, shiny coat just leaves me mean?
To bathe in dirt’s sweet salve brings pure relief
While sadly ‘pon Love’s face a look of grief.
See you anon at Poet’s Paddock!
Shakespeare “The Equine”
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