Lethargic and drunk, the strange old man
with bottle in hand, meandered across the field.
Staring ahead as best he could, held onto his hat
With vision zooming this way and that.
There stood a cottage at the edge of the treeline,
“Shelter from this scorching heat, and just in time.”
The man guzzled down what remained of his Rye,
Delirious and deranged, strange lights did he spy.
On further inspection he claimed them to be
“Ten tiny fairies, belonging to me.”
Swiftly he trapped them in that not-quite-empty bottle
He demanded they dance or threatened to throttle
They flew, and they flew, growing rapidly dimmer
In all that heat they simply did simmer
Till all of a sudden, his ‘fairies’ were drunk
Poor little fireflies, to the bottom they sunk.