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The compound eye
of the common housefly
sees a thousand things
as it flits through the sky;
a thousand views
of the same gross thing,
for all its confounded
visioning;
and I’ve often thunk
in mind’s-eye funk:
It must be hell
when the fly gets drunk.
No, I wouldn’t want the kind of trouble
the fly gets in when seeing double.
Too, thousand-eyed
isn’t fly-satisfied
with the two good legs
we have all ratified:
our common sense
bipedal issue,
but it must have three times
the tissue,
for all it’s bent,
fly-ambulent,
to high-fly strut
on our excrement.
No, I wouldn’t want the flyblown tipple
the fly gets in when walking triple.
Too, has four wings
(when we’ve zip flying things)
to fly in the face
(such bedevilings!)
of we who’d give
it a death-dealing swat
for all the confounding
things it’s got
—yet can’t fly straight
to save it’s soul
—a mile a foot!
to its fetid goal.
No, I wouldn’t want the err-miles fit
The fly gets in when winging it.
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