The dragonfly, whose name was Flo,
had an itch, she scratched it so,
it was a flea, ‘It’ll have to go!’
But a tiny flea is hard to find,
it’s always, always upon your mind;
and with great big claws,
and fiery breath,
Flo burnt and scratched herself to death.
.
‘But, that’s so sad!’ I hear you cry,
‘Why did poor Flo have to die?’
Truth be told, she never existed,
my creative writing a creature enlisted –
tales are told of made up things,
fleas with kites, dragonflies with swings
and in other far off made-up stories,
upon different days,
Flo and the flea,
just parted ways.
.
And a point you make
upon my tale:
‘It was a dragonfly,
and not a dragon,
have you been sipping from the flagon,
swigging too much ale?’
‘You caught me out!’
I drunkenly reply,
‘But, when was the last time you saw a dragon fly,
perhaps fleas are the reason why.’
