The bushmen call me “Cranky Fan,” Because my strange, erratic flight Seems to uncomprehending man Sign of a wit not over bright; But nimble wit and nimble wing Uphold me in the trade I ply Of ever-restless foraging— Excuse me—there’s another fly! A tireless ball of buff and grey; White-shafted, my important tail Guides me on my eccentric way When stronger aviators fail; Now right side up, now upside down, Now tumbling crazily from high, I ape the antics of a clown— Whoop!—and that’s another fly! ’Tis thus my daily fare I earn By nimble trick of wit and wing; And, when my nestlings so would learn, A clothes-line is a handy thing. And that is why we’re sitting now, Tho’ not for long, my brood and I, That they may be instructed how— Whoo-oop!—and that’s another fly! I loop the loop with careless ease, Now in a tail-spin watch me fall; Yet, spite these eccentricities, I am the friendliest bird of all. Upon your shoulder, lordly man, I pause as I go flitting by. Spare a kind word for Cranky Fan— Whoop!—and that’s another fly!