Queen Bee

The queen bee sits upon her throne,
Insuring that she's never alone. 

Carefully cultivating every one,
Molding every mother's son. 

Nurturing life throughout the hive,
Making sure it stays alive. 

Making sure that she's the one,
When all is said, all is done. 

She picks her drones carefully,
And cultivates them with care. 

She wouldn't want her nest,
Sullied by a wild old hair. 

From the head of a dread,
Challenge from within. 

She has carefully defined,
What is and is not, sin. 

And if, by chance, you cross her path,
Without permission given. 

You are banished from hive,
For the life you're living. 

Laughing out loud is her sting,
Full of sarcastic venom.

She makes of you the laughing stock.
In her matriarchy of women.

The queen of kings, hollow rings,
A hive built like a small town.

With a single stroke of gray smoke,
Her house of cards comes down.

The smoke of gray on the head,
Of the master clown.

A queen bee surrounded by her workers


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Copyright 2003 © Ronald W. Hull