The Bathroom Fly

He's always in there Flying his lonely solo's around the four walls Practicing advanced aeronautical maneuvers While veering slightly off course, to miss the vanity, The wall cabinet, the shower curtain.. Why can't he leave, the door is always open? Perhaps he's a spy drone, On retainer to record our hemorrhoids for posterity; Or how often we worship at the porcelain altar. Perhaps he's become so good at curving his flights He never misses his mark far enough to discover There is a way out of here. I leave him again, unharmed. I figure he's another prisoner, just like me.