I land on the hand that tried to swat me,

The hand of the hiker who swore he got me.

At morn my swarm and I
prevail

While sweating hikers swat
and flail.

Though necks and ears can
satisfy,

This hungry foraging Catskill fly

Most enjoys a clever twist,

Near a wrist,

Perhaps, on which to sit;

And then enjoy the irony:

The hiker can’t land a hand
on me.

For flies the adage just never holds true

You always bite the hand that feeds you.

By Donald Knies