'What's for dinner, chef?' said the house fly,
From his perch on the roll of kitchen towel.
He wasn't to know.
'Nothing you'd like.' I sighed
'Surprise me!' he replied.

It is summer, and last night,
Mosquitos robbed me of blood and sleep.
So when cooking a pasta sauce,
Zoroaster's recourse
Is a creed that I heed.

'Go on, surprise me!'
So I did. And I was right.
He didn't like it.