BALLADE OF BEELZEBUB, GOD OF FLIES

Some men there are will not abide a rat Within their bivvy. If one chance to peep At them through little beady eyes, then pat, They throw a boot and rouse a mate from sleep To hunt the thing, and on its head they heap Curses quite inappropriate to its size. I care for none of these, but broad and deep I curse Beelzebub—the God of Flies. Others may hunt the mouse with bayonet bright, And beard the glittering beetle in his lair, And fill the arches of the ancient night With clamour, if a stolid toad should stare Sleepily forth from the snug corner where They fain would rest. But I will sympathize With beetle, rat, and toad. I have no care. I curse Beelzebub—the God of Flies. The tiny gnats they swarm in many a cloud, To tangle their small limbs within my hair And sting. The blood-flies dart: and buzzing loud Blue-bottles draw mad patterns on the air. The house-flies creep, and, what is hard to bear, Feed on the poison papers advertise, And rub their hands with relish of such fare! I curse Beelzebub—the God of Flies. Envoi. Prince—Clown of Europe—others shall make haste To call damnation on your limbs and eyes. Spending good oaths upon you were a waste: I curse Beelzebub—the God of Flies.