Little larva of the botfly, what
sort of pale soft mooch are you
you whose name we filched, too
to truncate the word for metal wrought

by force into a mind of sorts? Or a hive
of oversimple yeas and nays, who sways
and turns brains to and fro, lends weight
to fame, keeps flesh and ire alive

chews over it long past its date?
Even excreted, you leave a trace
a trail of slime, smear of detritus
testifying to the devoured’s fate.

You pass whole, pupate, having first hectored
what you ate: our innate unholy altered vector.