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Or of course you might like this little known parody, in appreciation of Joyce Kilmer of course.

I think that I shall never spy
a poem as lovely as a fly.

A fly whose hungry mouth is pressed
against my warm and pulsing breast.

A fly that thinks all day of blood
with morals that are utter crud.

A fly that may in summer give
malaria to all that live,

whose only gift to me is pain
that only worsens with the rain.

Poems are made by fools like I
but only God can make a fly.