
Like some slow-witted, inbred sub-cretin,
by the lowliest insect I'm beaten
I'd fly straight away
but it isn't my day
I'll know it the instant I'm eaten
I've had nothing but bad to worse luck
First a bug in my lab ran amok
Now my head is so tiny
when I yell I sound whiny
By a rock I'm about to be struck
Herbert Marshall and Vincent Price have had enough of these damn limericks about The Fly (Kurt Neumann, 1958).