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School holidays were testing times for Mum’s with things we done,
when us kids had idle time to chase the values of new fun.
We’d trained our dogs, built bushland huts, chased rabbits; camped at night.
Dipped the dams for tadpoles and all the while kept out of sight.

Then Dennis told us ‘bout a snake he’d seen on Tyrell’s land,
we thought we’d better find it, and then kill it so we planned;	
then Ronnie pointed to a tree with bee’s flying in and out.
The subject ‘honey’ then came up; a subject we new nought about.
 
“Smoke ‘em out that’s what’cha do, and then invade their home. 
Bee’s calm down with smoke and let you take their honeycomb.”
Pedro’s advice convinced us fools to rob the hive that night,
so we gathered what we needed then waited for the fading light.

A broad brimmed hat, mosquito net, bucket and a tomahawk.
Some paper, hay and matches (along with much bravado talk)
A torch and gloves and that’s it. We surrounded the bees home.
I could almost taste that honey dripping from the honeycomb.
 
The hives inside the hollow base of an old swamp gum tree.
We got the smoke fire burning and then we started hearing bees.
Ronnie’s dressed to rob the hive, and so began to play his part.
He put his hand into the hollow and then pulled back with quite a start.
	
Those bees had entered somewhere, inside Ron’s protecting net.
We watched him swipe, heard him swear, and he began to fret.
We made his fear a laughing matter with the bees all ‘on the wing’.
They were going hell for leather and were prepared to sting.

‘Twas a battle that was worthy of any in a war,
the bees were close to winners though their casualties were more.
They had us on the run; in fact into a full retreat,
with one bucket full of honeycomb, so we’re not completely beat.

Next day I’m thinking to myself - I’ll go back to the battleground
to pick up what we left behind, but unprepared for what I found.
The fire we lit had stoved the tree; the hive was dead and gone.
The whole darn tree was smouldering like the bloke who’s looking on.

“What the bloody hell have you done?” Old Gardner screamed at me.
“You’ve wrecked one of my bee hives and burnt down the flamin’ tree.
I’ve watched that hive for ten years, and now look what you’ve done!”
It was then I thought the best to do - is turn around and run.

I made it back to Pedro’s; I told him what old Gardner said.
All Pedro did was laugh at me when I told him how I fled,
then he walked me to the honeycomb; it’s black and filled with ash,
and straining through some cheesecloth - the honey didn’t look too flash.

Well it tasted sweet like honey; though hardly looking pure and clear.
Was the effort really worth it when intention turned to fear?
If I ever mention bee hives now, I’m given looks that kill,
‘cause bee stings linger on our minds - more than honey ever will.
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