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Poem	the population controller slips into disguise his charming suit his veil of words conceals his gaze he has laid out the fields and filled them with blossoms and counted the money jars in his SimCity slim city androgyn sharp bodies are worry perfect slicked back souped up cool as drones the neutered ones will dance for one another in the pages of glib they make their ideal hexagonal cubicles gleam with honey they gel their wings catch their reflections in passing pools hope they’ll win somehow against the odds they won’t the beekeeper has a boxed and ready fear of bees he won’t let them forget he tells them duty honour the sacredness of home and holds a smoking gun for dissident and obedient alike those who gather in the courtyards of fame he’ll teach his rules those who gather in the squares he’ll fight with guns and scorn those who write destinations in the air he’ll silence his fields and his alone are edible he’ll say and all the rest are poison and all those who disagree are fools or mad and must be fought for sanity and for country and the bees obey
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