He's a big ol' putty cat with a mane, crown of fur
The lionesses dig him, his scent, his allure.
The females crowd the king and lick at his face,
but his liege swats them away to give him his space.
He sits alone, licks his chops stained blood red.
Just the king in the shade of a tree old and dead.
One ear twitches. The tail jerks. Now both ears.
Slight touches. Light buzzing. Then he appears.
The pest of the dead, the speck of black in the sky.
Paradoxical in origin. The smell or the fly?
Again the king swats. "Away with you tormentor."
The fly takes no notice, and remains a dissenter.
Given no choice the lion lets his paws go,
he bites at the sky and tail he does throw.
The fly carries on. Land. Fly. Land. Fly...at will.
While the king begins to tire from his illusive kill.
The lord falls to the dirt, pants hard, head on ground,
as the fly still continues to effortlessly dance around.