Flying Off The Handle Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

A fly, during the summer's drought
was buzzing in a fly-about
through villages and fields of wheat
in search of something fit to eat.

Above a farm and from the air
he saw a feast of no compare,
a brown and somewhat runny pie
pleased both his nostrils and his eye.

He landed quickly to make sure
that none would see this sweet manure,
and ate way past his normal fill,
felt stuffed and just a trifle ill.

Sounds from the house now could be heard,
and he could see that every bird,
that had been sitting in a tree
flew off as if it had to flee.

The fly, now finished with the pie
was getting set to bid good bye,
he tried and tried but only found
that he would never leave the ground.

He was too heavy, that was it,
so full of warm and tasty shit,
but he was crafty, skilled and never
would give it up; he was too clever.

A pitchfork stood, leaned to a wall,
its handle wooden and quite tall.
He figured if he climbed he might
initiate successful flight.

He did, and reached the top at last,
let out an afterburner blast
and hurled himself into the sky!
but dropped just like a stone. Oh my!

Blood, mixed with brown digested matter
the sight of it, I mean the latter,
was nowhere pretty to the eyes
but it attracted other flies.

They swarmed and held an aerial meeting,
and found that they would do some eating,
because there was nutritious fare
which they went down to, and to share.

I say, if you have eaten shit
and thus are truly full of it,
don't off your handle ever fly,
just look what happened to this fly!