A Worker Bee's Tryptich

Worker Bee's Triptych 

The apis jacket sits,

On bentwood orange chair.

The neatly coiffured spits

Colombian everywhere.

A headline screams out wild:

Of injust 'over there'

While some poor bastard child,

Makes socks for him to wear.

A Paul Smithian malaise,

Spread thin on life's biscuit.

On this, our bee does graze.

Transformed, away it flits.

The insect flies atop,

Through humid altitudes,

Striped Everest of cloth,

Surveys the horrid view: 

Two-legged creatures fuss,

An' toil, cross bloodied tracks.

Through biohazardous,

For queen and export tax.

The queen, they say, she does:

Reign o'er them lot too.

Her golden hive a' buzz;

Grey workers out of view.

These stately 'olidays!

Won't stop the sweatshop truck.

She "works so hard" they say;

Our insect friend is fucked.

For who to be our bee?

A pin-up for the daft?

Or potent allegory:

Six-legged god of graft?

This shallow grave-ed soul

Kept their tootsies warm.

They now turn blue and cold.

Beware the coming swarm!

Performed at Peoples' Republic of Poetry

2015