I’ve tried for years to write poetry and just can’t do it, so I’m borrowing. This, to me, is even further removed from my style as I can think to write. A billion pardons to J. Kilmer for this hideous attempt at being clever.
I know that I shall always be
A terrified coward when it comes to bees.
Bees whose skin-chilling buzzing sound
evokes deathly fear even before being found;
A bee that stings will find its way,
into my life nearly every blasted day;
A bee that may in summer bring so rotten
A painful black welt the size of a dinner plate upon my bottom;
Upon whose bosom I am to blame;
Who intimately targets with such searing pain.
Stings are made by fools like bees,
And it isn’t by remaining still that can make them flee.