Dancing flies rise on the warm air,
one bite enough to make you itch.
So listen for their telltale pitch,
a siren warning they are there.
Attacking those who don’t take care,
even when dressed in fabric thin
may find red lumps upon their skin.
Spots that can be soothed by tinctures
thinking that God made such creatures
perhaps as punishment for sin.
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Very evocative poem! That ‘telltale pitch’ is guaranteed to oust me from bed and give me insomnia until I’ve located the little blighter!
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