Australia they say is filled
with all the things that get you killed:
snakes and spiders, birds and bats,
venomous dogs, and dog-sized rats.
But none in counting could ever forget
the continent’s infamous national pet,
by which you bet I mean the fly.

Like rocks with wings, or drops of dry;
like drones of death, the scouts of hell,
the souls of all the men who fell
to thirst along this twisted track,
or like some angry god’s attack
they swarm in shapeless, shifting form!

A black mass like a violent storm
is aiming for our ears and eyes!
Swatting is hopeless, but still one tries
to ****- just one! To no avail-
it’s easier to **** a whale.

Dizzying sweeping, swoop and swirl,
they’ll never sleep- just loop and whirl,
cry like a hammer who’s driving a Hummer,
then clothe us like four coats in summer.
Here paradise waits with a wave and a cuss,
and we found it after the flies got us.