A Soft Carpel from Which it Sips

Photo: Omar Willey. CC-BY 4.0

The bee rubbed its abdomen
into the rich and succulent
Pollen, in complete abandon
in ecstasy, its thorax bent.

Rich nectar oozing from its tip.
It is delirious with its joy,
a portulent aft its nip,
but snatched up, no mere boy.

Its grand stinger’s unsheathed
all rubbed raw but never used.
This cautious pointy beast
keeps himself busily amused.

His Nessus – a pink tulip
broad and unopened, a soft
carpel from which it sips.
Here’s its stellation and its loft.

Nothing will bother this bee
not light, nor push, nor sway
It peers at all it sees
a thousand times its way.

Ah, this is its place
Here’s its fuzz, its perch
where it dances in its daze
bares all in orgasmic lurch.

Oh, but if you poke your nose
unwelcomed in its private lair
if by chance you get too close
watch out – it’s best bee wary.

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