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Don Quijote

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Buzzing around, our little fly takes flight,

Bright yellow, with legs stretched long and slight;

Its native hue will never fade or die,

Yet black or red, it darts before the eye.

Hovering above a sleeper’s head, it swirls,

Beating wings till every feather twirls;

Would it not pause, and spare the sleeper’s rest,

Instead it hums and buzzes near the ear’s nest?