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I call this poem "Flies".
Flies.
We find them everywhere, buzzing all around.
There's buzzing when a fly is up, and when a fly is down.
They come to dinner, uninvited, landing in our soup,
Where they deposit teeny tiny microscopic poop.
You'll find dead flies on a Chevette dashboard, or Mercedes Benz.
Flies are not very nice. Flies are not our friends.
Flies start out as little maggots, in the garbage bin.
Flies eat discarded yucky things, like rotten chicken skin.
A fly'd get nasty things, if a fly got what it wished.
Like bloated stinky rotten pungent reeking rancid fish.
Flies don't care if they're on your front, or on your back end.
Flies are not very nice. Flies are not our friends.
Flies show up uninvited in every locality
To have a heapin' helpin' of your hospitality.
You'll find them sitting on the ceiling, or walking on the walls.
You'll find flies buzzing around a man's hairy sweaty... head.
Flies like dirty diapers, and grandpa's used Depends.
Flies are not very nice. Flies are not our friends.
Flies like the steamy stench of restrooms, and a horse stable.
But there's nothing that a fly likes more than Tommy and Rumble.
I'd never hurt a ladybug, it's flies I can't defend.
Flies are not very nice. Flies are not our friends.
Flies are not very nice. Flies are not our friends.
I can't stress this any more, but flies are not our friends.
Flies flies flies flies flies flies flies,
Flies flies flies flies flies .
Add Heidi, and another "s", and that spells Heidi Fliess.
But that does not change the fact that
Flies are not very nice. Flies are not our friends.
--Chuck the Intern from "Tommy and Rumble", the best morning show in Hampton Roads.
-Mikey
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