The Fly

by George S. Patton Jr.

O, sweet slight friend
Who frolics free
O'er cactus plain
Or sandy lee,

No one can lonely
Long remain
While hearkening to
Thy blithe refrain

When meal time comes
Thy friendly face
Is everywhere about
The place.

You taste the coffee
Eat oatmeal
And from the cakes the
Syrup steal.

And though we know that
You have been
On the hot turds
In some latrine,

And while you sipped
The dainties there
You gathered germs in
Your long hair,

To spread them
Wantonly upon
Each dainty meat
Or new baked bun.

Still, we can't blame you
For we know
That all we eat
To shit will go.

And after meals
When we would feign
Seek Morpheus' arms
From labor pain,

You gently break
Our sweet repose
By deftly fucking
In our nose.

Our ears and mouths
You then explore
And leave there
Pus from some old sore.

Then when at night
You needs must sleep
Onto our tented
Roofs you creep.

And when the Witching
Hour has come
Your dainty farts
Pervade the gloom,

While like the dews
From heaven fall
Your tiny turds
So round and small.

And if in battle
We should die
Around us first
Would swarm the fly.

You'd do your best
To ease the pain
And swarm around
Each oozing vein.

Yes, in memoria to
A friend
A hundred thousand
Eggs you'd lend.

And as through maggots
Sent by you
Our gruesome corpse
More gruesome grew.

You'd swarm in myriads
Feasting high
You'd hum our dirge
You goddamned fly!