A bluebottle fly (Calliphoria vomitoria) puts humans in their place.
I must protest against the name your scientists have called us,
On behalf of other bluebottles. It’s really quite appalled us.
The genus name is odd enough: you called us Calliphoria;
But who will love our species now we’re known as vomitoria?
You humans think we’re grubby. “Ugh! You don’t know where he’s been”,
I hear you say, as though we’re something seriously obscene.
But when I look at humans, well, I’m taken quite aback –
The pot, as you’ll recall, should never call the kettle black.
Your body is so huge, I bet its total surface area
Is covered, head to toe, with many squillions more bacteria
Than I could pick up in a year of gentle bluebottling around
On compost heaps and carcasses and dung piles on the ground.
Your mouthparts aren’t a patch on ours: I have no lips to pucker,
And what I eat I vacuum up with this, my little sucker.
It’s quick, it’s clean, there is no mess, no washing-up, no waste;
And what is more, it’s fresh, organic produce, full of taste.
On each side of my head I’ve got a great big compound eye,
So I never need to blink, and I never ever cry.
Irises? Who needs ’em? Not a bluebottle like me:
Several thousand ommatidia show me all I need to see.
How come you have no wings and cannot fly? Seems evolution
Left you humans way behind us flies, still seeking a solution;
And look, you’ve only four legs – and you’re only using two
To stand on. How unstable! You need six legs, in my view.
So next time that you hear that gentle, soothing, buzzing sound,
And you wonder if perhaps there is a bluebottle around,
Just remember what I’ve said; and when eventually you spot me,
Think how backward humans are, compared to flies. And please don’t swat me . . .