Bees

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.