He'd come when called—I called him Joe.—
He was a most amusing fly.
At evening, when the sun was low,
Or, by the firelight's ruddy glow
He'd hopscotch on my buttered bread
Or o'er my jam, with nimble toe.
(Alas! that little fly is dead.)
I saved him once, when none was by;
From out the milk jug's fatal flow
I fished him out, and let him dry.