Oldie Competition No. 231

I have just been driven to distraction by a big, fat fly that has been buzzing about the kitchen, then hiding when I pursue it with a newspaper. A poem, please, called The Fly, on anything suggested by the title. 

The Fly

The female fly is nearly chaste.

She hasn't any time to waste;

Her life's a span of weeks, not months,

And so she copulates just once.

This single tryst is guaranteed

To satisfy her every need

Because she takes her lover's juice

And stores it up for future use.

When it is time to fertilize,

She has no further need of sighs.

The stuff for coating every egg

She's got at hand—or filth-drenched leg.

She lays and lays without the aid

Ever again of being laid.

The system works quite well for flies.

The male fly may feel otherwise.