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T’was under noon hour’s scorching heat,
When three flies flew about,
Around the toilet, one in orbit,
And acted as a scout.
Enjoying their meal the two flies were,
When the third one cried with fear,
“With haste we flies must fly away,
A smack just sounded near!”
Yet down inside the smooth white bowl,
The two flies heard him not,
Today the giver had gave a lot,
And to flush he had forgot.
The scout flew fast with dizzy aim,
A fly is hard to steer!
And just before into safety’s core,
A smack had squished the dear.
Then falling with a rigid form,
Came the messenger,
He came down flat, he hit with a splat,
Foretelling future danger.
“Alas! Our friend now flies no more,
It could have been myself,
Instead my thoughts were not of caution,
But of fresh-made wealth.”
“A plan there shall exist,” said he,
“To save our pointed rears,
For if we stay clear, laissez faire,
The smack will next be here.”
“But why?” said he, the second fly,
“We’ll die off soon enough!
A frog, a flame, a windshield too,
A smack? Well, life is tough!”
Refuse said he, the premier fly,
He did not want to die,
Second fly blinked not an eye,
And ate on without sigh.
“Aha!” exclaimed the fearful fly,
“I know just what I lack!
I will pretend to be a bee,
The man won’t dare to smack!”
Some corn he found, within the pile,
Yellow as bumblebee,
Upon his back he did install,
This makeshift mockery.
And out he shot from deep within,
“Huzzah Huzzah!” he cries,
Yet “Ah! A bee!” replied the man,
And smack! The fake bee dies.
T’was there contained in scorching heat,
The last fly plus its food,
Still munching on his unflushed gift,
Fly two was in good mood.
To be yourself, and not a bee,
Was that fly’s little tact,
For later outside there he met,
A “Shoo!” and not a smack.