Flying Off The Handle

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!