A Working Bee

The worker bees, are a hardy bunch, They wake at four, and prepare their lunch. It’s off to the mines, for another day, To stir the pots, and earn their pay. Their hard hats on, with small yellow lights, Standing in line, to work into nights. The start of the mine, is a wondrous hall, Golden in colour, in the shape of a ball. They tie their laces, and put on their braces, They put on their goggles, to each of their faces. Clocking cards out, the shift will begin, As they enter the mine, the queen lives in. Down a tunnel, of ember and gold, Honeycomb walls, oozing and old. Their brown honey sticks, are ready in hand, A uniformed line, like a marching band. The floor is sticky, with oozing honey, The reason they’re there, to make their money. One by one, they enter inside, A room with pots, that honey does hide. They get their sticks, place into the pot, Of liquid gold, that’s still quite hot. They stir the honey, all day long, Whilst singing an ancient, working song. “He he, ha ha, it’s off to the hive, The place which where, worker bees thrive, We stir the honey, to make our money, It’s the thing that keeps us alive” Delivery arrives, it’s the pollen bees, They’ve done their picks, of flowers and trees. Into the pot, they add the dew, Of daffodils and hydrangea, to name a few. A secret ingredient, will come at the end, As the mixture thickens, their sticks will bend. It’s nearing the end, of another long shift, A siren is heard, their morale will lift. Sweetness of honey, will fill the air, As the bees do dribble, they want their share. The shift then ends, clocking cards out, The manager comes, “home time” he’ll shout. The bees are done, for another long day, One of the bees, will always say. “Down to the pub? For honeysuckle beers?” Worker bees go, for a long awaited cheers.