Quite privately

     (just you and me)

I ought to be 

     a better bee. 

When we have flown

     it’s often known

I spend an hour

     in but one flower

and tweak my trips

     with nectar sips.

(Enhances buzz

     is what it does!)

And yes, uncouth,

     I often sit

and wish, in truth,

     a bee could quit.

So should I try

     to seize the day,

before I die,

     to guide the way, 

to make a date

     with lady luck,

to steer my fate

     and hone my pluck?

Create — who knows —

     a workers’ slate!

I’ll urge in prose

     we demonstrate

and study class

     like Karl Marx.

Get off our grass

     and fan some sparks!

Yet if we press

     to unionize

it would distress

     our humble hives.

Our prima queens,

     we have to please.

We’re stuck, it seems,

     as bourgeois bees.

We pale beside 

     your human race,

since you decide

     to whom embrace.

But then this spring —

     resurgent, blue —

as we take wing,

     I’ve news for you.

For what it’s worth

     I’ve come to see

that life on Earth

     depends on me.

If I don’t care

     to pollinate,

they’ll be no fare

     upon your plate.

No food would grow.

     We’d seal our fate

and, stings to know,

     not procreate.

So, honey, now

     I rest my case

and take this vow

     to set the pace.

I’ll organize!

     I’ll claim free will!

Recruit the guys

     at Polly Hill!

I better be 

     a better bee,

not waste my days

     on poetry.