It is as busy as a bee because it is a bee;
So why—oh, why—should it have anything to do with me?
I certainly am not a flower, of most any sort,
And I don’t think I smell like one which it would care to court.
But let me try to sit outside, like basking in the sun,
I guarantee the bees will find me, never only one.
They never seem to try to land on me, for which I’m glad,
But their incessant buzzing ‘round my head will drive me mad!
To top that off, I do like flowers, nice and bright and bold,
But their deliberate side-show with me is getting old.
Okay, for what it’s worth, I’ve said my piece—a little bit;
If you have solved this problem, hope you don’t mind sharing it.
© Richard Williams