Fly on the Wall

The pen picked a fight with the paper
The four walls looked on in disdain
The pen broke its nib in the caper
But inflicted a horrible stain

The pen lay there battered and broken
The paper had two big black eyes
No words were written or spoken
Which surely should be no surprise

The writer looked downcast and grim
Frustration now welling within
His chair creaked slightly beneath him
His head was beginning to spin

The fly on the wall remained silent
It offered no friendly advice
The scene on the desk had been violent
And the poet was paying the price

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Copyright © Robert Haigh 2015