From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 10, 1912. ‘Tis the last fly of summer that flits on the wing; And my heart almost bleeds for the lonesome young thing! No mate of his old age, no comrade has he To stick in the jelly, or drown in the tea! I know if I spare him he’ll frisk on my nose; Or perch on my bald spot, disturb my repose! Bereft of his vigor and shorn of his pride, I’ll send him to rest, where the good flies reside! So (swat!) let me finish his earthly career— Then (bing!) goes a globe from my best chandelier; And (smash!) my screen swatter is dashed at his head— But, gosh! ‘Twas a finger bowl shattered instead. Well, (biff!) ain’t it awful, I’ve missed him once more? And (bang!) this destruction is making me sore. So kindly let’s gather the wreckage away, And hope that we land him on some other day!