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Queen Bee

There is a tree
In there, rests the Queen Bee.
The Queen Bee's sting is a terrifying fright.
One prick, you morph over night.
You form into one of her workers, you see.
Just another worker of the Queen Bee.
Value? There is none.
Just get her honey before her humor is gone.
There was one young girl, you see.
Individual, awkward, pretty and free.
But one small prick of the Queen Bee's potion.
Sent the poor girls mind in motion.
Then, very quickly, you see
She was a worker of the Queen Bee.
And I? I prefer to be me
Awkward, tall and perfectly free.
Yet, It bottles my mind, how so many girls change in such little time.
Maybe, we should wait and see
If I dare wander near the Queen Bee's.
Yet, I refuse to climb the tree.
Can't make the risk of getting stung by that horrid Queen Bee.
And if she comes near? As simple as this.
Squash her with my flyswatter, at a flick of my wrist.



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andromeda13 said...
Jun. 17, 2012 at 7:13 pm:
Everyone knows at least one Queen bee. I aplaud the many other people that refuse to conform. It was agreat poem, I love your work!
 
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