A fuzzy buzzy honey bee
Is just as happy as can be.
He rests inside a flower head.
What a lovely bower bed!
The bees had learned to be quite wise
At least, that’s what I do surmise
For in their bee-ish sort of way.
The bees alive and thrive each day.
For fifty million years survive.
They’ve helped the flowers live and thrive.
But then one day it came to be
A very different sort of bee.
And he proclaimed: “It’s not our lot
To help the flowers; that’s just rot!
And if you’re careful you can see
We can still keep making honey.
There’s no need to help the rose.
Do they help us? I don’t suppose!”
This long-tongued rogue had so convinced
A new behavior soon evinced.
The bees avoided pollination
But gathered stuff for beehive nation.
Yet all went well or so it seemed
The bees still thrived and they still dreamed.
They feasted well in winter’s cold.
So happy with their new plan bold.
The sunny spring arrived at last.
The flowers though no longer massed.
“Each bee for themselves is right!
Who cares no rose? We’ll fight!
We’ll sting, not sing, you’ll see
We’ll all do well if you give me all your honey!”
The roses gone; no bees to thrive.
The roses gone; no bees survive.
For greed is poison just like snake.
And only a fool would follow a fake.