This thread is consequence of Nicolas's (id critter) followed by Fazor's (fish'n)...fly-fishing / baits Following the events in that room, at The White House, the other day, I vaguely remembered Blake's poem, The Fly... Little Fly,Thy summer's playMy thoughtless handHas brushed away. Am not IA fly like thee?Or art not thouA man like me? For I danceAnd drink, and sing,Till some blind handShall brush my wing.......As a kid, some one, once asked me how I would feel if a Martian (having landed here) gave me thump or a clip behind my ear...so, me treats these critters gentlyI like to think that all the television lights and what-have-you, and the resultant heat etc., made our 'first fly' rather languid and lethargic in its manner and disposition. it was probably 'horsing' around and didn't suspect anything when it landed.In its reverie of the lovely, cosy warmth of the room, recovering from its foray in the Rose Garden, with its buddies...a brief respite, inside, didn't end as it anticipated. The poor thing didn't see the First Thumper's determined, stunning forehand approaching.