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A little nasty bee
A little nasty bee flew
past the yellow hill –
fast as running deer
hunting a Rose tree.
Dew drops from her sting –
trembled the butterflies,
wings flapping fretfully –
scorn was in the air tonight.
“Ah, rose, do you whimper?
So lonely and beautiful –
waiting for a hand
bypassing your thorns?
The wind took your aroma far –
the hive where I live is nearby
and like an armored knight
they will swarm undaunted.
I could settle and swing -
the Jasmine in the valley
are blossoming too early -
my last spring, honey.
Now, I must bid farewell –
fear not, your Ripper
is coming, eager and tender –
loving you much so.”
And then went the bee
leaving the frail rose behind –
watched by an grey raven
flying past the moonlight.
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