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.