The Storm Is Coming, Fly

There is a storm in the distance.  The sun is hot on my sleeves, hot on my arms, and won't be around for long.  A fly tries to bother me.  Wait, fly.  Wait for the storm.  You will feel its fury, and your tiny little wings will be still.  You will see an infinity of drops.  Your disease will be washed away.  You will be a clean fly, a rebel, washed of poop, although that may have been your snack, and maybe you will be extremely frustrated.  I don't care.  I swat your kind.  I shot a rubber band at your mother.  Whatcha think about that?
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