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).
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In a network of fine sticky thread
I'm entangled to keep spiders fed
You'd think I was cursed
And to make matter worse
I get smacked with a rock till I'm dead.
He had tried to send matter through space
Now part fly, his demise he must face
To death he'll be beaten
or by spider be eaten
He is caught 'tween a rock and hard place
It looks like our hero is stuck
The choices he faces both suck
But how can he choose
between two ways to lose?
He'll die like a fly or a schmuck
As the mandibles crunch into bone
And his life is snuffed out by a stone
Will what flashes past his eyes
Be his life, or the fly's?
This is nature's eternal unknown.
By nature a man or a beast?
The greatest with taint of the least?
Original sin
or Darwinian kin?
Does a scientist answer or priest?
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