If bees could vote, they’d vote the same,
In labor unions run by females called “Mame.”
The weapons they carry are well concealed,
But when meeting opponents they’re quickly revealed. The leaders remain in their populous realms
Where they govern with vigor at solitary helms.
These voluble, velvety, volatile creatures
Whir like a violin’s best musical features.
They serenade orchards, extracting fine fluids,
In humming swarms of nectared druids.
Light-winged, potent, pretty thieves,
They bustle noisily through springtime leaves. Moving brazenly from flower to flower,
They’re engaged for a lifetime yet paid by the hour.
Swathed in black and gold raiments they swoop and buzz,
Tiny truculent trumpets of feckless fuzz.
They pollinate fields and bowers and crops
With a distribution method that is simply tops.
Those out to destroy them besiege them with spray,
And quash the bees’ missives to spread and obey.
They slash all the buds and kill all the weeds,
Curtailing this insect’s most daring of deeds.
The poisons impede an effortless way
Of aiming fair Cupid at a living bouquet.
Consummate matchmakers for nominal wages,
Bees court and carry for eons and ages.
What miniature masters of fertile locomotion,
To be so endowed with this powerful notion! – Pamela Ross
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