Flies Poem by John Carter Brown

It's summer and they buzz around
Producing lots of buzzing sound,
Doing what all flies do best,
Confirming that they are a pest.

And nothing seems to faze the things
No matter what the weather brings,
Rain or shine it's all the same,
This flies versus the humans game.

I hear they have a hundred eyes
Unless someone is telling lies;
I can't imagine why the need -
Overkill, like the centipede?

Picnic times they're worst of all
As plagues of them upon us fall,
And flapping arms don't mean a thing
To busy flies upon the wing.

But then perchance there is a lull
As if somehow there's been a cull,
But nothing of the sort is true
They've only flown from me to you.

Back and forth they hum away
Blasting every summer's day,
Only autumn halts their drone
And for a season we're alone.

Inside the house their numbers fall,
Just the odd one on the wall,
Then over winter they just wait,
For then 'tis time to Flybernate.

(Written Nov 2013)