augury doggerel

Friday, August 09, 2002


I woke up late this morning. The sun was on the rockets and the bees were working the blossoms. The pollen baskets hanging from each bee's back legs were stuffed swollen yellow. (They must walk like cowgirls when they get home.) And while I watched them ever so closely, trying to see just how they grip the blossom when they land and how they fill their shopping bags, my bus came and went and left me standing there like an ass at the stop.

Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get you your
weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped
humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good
mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret
yourself too much in the action, mounsieur; and,
good mounsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not;
I would be loath to have you overflown with a
honey-bag, signior. [...]


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