Ode to a Dung Fly

O happy little dung fly, with all your dung fly chums,
You speed on wings to swarm on things that fall from horses' bums.
Yet 'horse' has no importance, for cow- or sheep- or pig-
Or any poo will do for you, you do not care a fig.
As long as who's first eaten leaves nourishment behind,
The smell, the taste? Who cares? It's waste: disposal's on your mind.

You gather with your thousands, detritus to devour;
You munch away throughout the day, unstinting, every hour.
When some great beast approaches, all lift away in fright,
Then, panic gone, all carry on and have another bite.
You flit about while feasting, you never use a chair -
But I'm the fool, you have a stool, and you're quite happy there!

When arduous labour's over, at fall of eventide,
You leave the swarm for somewhere warm and, preferably, inside.
An open window beckons, where cake and morsels sweet
Arrayed on lace seems just the place to rest and wash your feet.
With what you've had your feet in, please don't land on my tea.
If you do that you'll end up flat, so stay away from me!

Copyright © 2003 Desmond Hilary