Bees can be freaky green-eyed Susans
shooting their camera eyes for IMAX Disney.
Purple ones in a binary of a fireball to the galactic halos
are on the sunflower set in the pleasure of playing a song.
The wingef violins and bow stingers
of the spiritual are the pains, on the old English wall
for a dore\'s laborum with the gardener before the drone comet,
and still the pharaohs, in the wildflowers and top congregation,
with those enormous eyes their manhood will then be charmed,
in the dwelling by their sisters pensioned to die for the new spring,
when seven white lilacs will mount on a plant
in a mysterious science when the nect drones shiver in their craft
warming the wake\'s odour or chill
for the spoils of war kept in the sunken-floored
sweet shops at least there\'s no bee sweatshops,
serving as their bourgeoisie\'s choppers like humsns so strange.