Little trees, sips of teas,
running around, with honeybees,
don’t take those, are their pleas,
as I sweat upon my knees,
I get back, right on track,
filling up green, in my black sack,
those colours remain, they don’t lack,
thus, a buzzy friend, can have some slack,
patch is clear, time for a beer,
to toast to toil, and bee’s cheer,
stating that we were here,
doing our thing, without any fear,
such a scene, so serene,
this example is so clean,
perhaps, man should be less mean,
for we are the reason, of such a scream,
such a pain, we are to blame,
us top of the food chain,
our thoughts and deeds, are the shade,
a treacherous game, that we have played,
so, swap bleeding, for weeding,
instead of impeding,
when we fidget, we’re not heeding,
thus, our way’s, not succeeding.