Classic Poem

My Uncle Toby was a saint,
Which I regret to say I ain't.
Each morn, no sooner do I rise
Then I begin to swat the flies.
As every day the opening doors
Let in the pests by twos and fours,
So every day I swat and swat
To polish off the latest lot;
And neither arm nor patience tires
Until the last foul fly expires.

My Uncle Toby graced the page
Of an unscientific age;
He did not understand, as I,
His duty was to swat the fly.
The world is wide; a house is not;
And that is why I swat and swat.
I swat them hither, swat them yon,
I swat them ever and anon;
I swat and swat from sun to sun,
And still the work is never done.