I stand before you a deliciously fat, contemptibly gorged, terminally mal-orientated fruit fly. I am too small for you to see properly with your bulging human eyes—and if you could see yourselves, you would shut those ghastly bulbous blinkers for ever and move by nasal navigation as I do—but before you sentence me to a delectable death by drowning in the liquid heaven of your wine glass, allow me a few final snatches of my subsonic song. Do not tut-tut at my red eyes, so distended with saccharine sap, do not mind if I slur my speech: it is true I have tasted your silky vinum shirazium, your heady ratafias, lost a leg in a beautiful bog of putrefied peach (a pleasure for which I gladly sacrifice a full third of my thirty delirious days on planet Earth); I have sunk my parched tubular little mouth into the flesh of your fabled Farsic almonds (mineral components: Isphahanite, Tebrizic, Nishaburium, a large grain of salt). Please, good people, before I spiral and float black-belly up in your cup, let me say: God bless the saintly creature in whose single delicately rotting quince I laid eighty sets of five eggs, I suckled four hundred little heirs on the lovely microflora of her voluptuous bruises! O, generous green-grocer!
Melanogaster melonogluzzler is leaving you at the speed of two hundred wing-beats per second, ladies and gentleman of the fruitery! Fruiterers and fruiteresses of the gentlemenry! Fruitflies and flightfries of the frighterty! I commend you with all my dizzy little 90 cubic-micron heart to the care of my colleague the sugar-fungus, and his wondrous potions; be kind, you breeders and planters and pickers and weeders, to the Prunoideae, the Amygdali, the bitter, the green, the peach, the prune and the nectarine, and do not neglect their gorgeous ivory secret: the Prussic acid of the pips!
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