Classic Poem

The flies! the flies! the whizzing flies!
Those little dragon things!
The air is Babel with their sounds
And twilight with their wings.

There's one is buzzing in my ear,
And one above my eye—
Ah—I have got him in my hand—
That miserable fly!

Thump! there's your gruel, honest friend—
Smash! how's your liver now!
Aha! my fingers, worthy bugs,
Are devils in a row.

Keep off, keep off, blue-bottle fly,
With your asthmatic hum,
You're mighty loving with my nose,
You would not like my thumb.

Stop, let him crawl a little way,
There,—now if you must go
Just be so good as leave in pawn
A dozen legs or so.

Well, really now, my pretty pet
I fear I've hurt your head
I'm sorry—but we all must die—
The little whelp is dead.

Hand me the tongs—they come, they come
Like pecks of living hail;
O Lord Monboddo, bless your soul.
I wish I had a tail.