Flies Flies Flies*

Close the door lest the flies come in. “Nay, ” said the good-wife who wasn’t thin, “They’re buzzin’ all over the ceilin’ and floor. What’s the use to close the door? “Take that there, ” and she waved the brand Of the flyswatter flapping in her hand. “I must’ave hit a thousand or more And still they’re comin’ through the door. “The men are huntin’ out in the fields. What care they what their doddlin’ yields, Or the hinge is crooked an’ the screen is tore; ‘Tain’t no use to close the door. 'Bloodthirsty brutes, the bloomin’ lot. Needless killin’ an’ a bottle o’ sot. Na’ry a one knows what they’re for: To mend the screen and fix the door. “Look’y there, that one’s not dead.” So she hit him again, smack on the head, And the flies piled up on table and floor, While more came swarming through the door.