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
While sweating hikers swat
Though necks and ears can
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
For flies the adage just never holds true
You always bite the hand that feeds you.
By Donald Knies