Bees
I don't know why,
but the little things with wings and stings
and yellow and black,
with cruel little eyes and and awful buzz,
a wiggling behind and hairy legs,
they scare me and scare me 'til I'm terrified,
they are mean and too many times I've felt their sting,
somewhere soft like the back of my hand,
and even once on my forehead,
twenty times is enough,
and no, that's not exaggerated,
the little beasts just kept coming,
and you can't run,
or even hold still,
'cause they'll keep on hurting,
even after they're dead,
their wicked little tail is stuck in my skin,
and I see the little organs
pumping venom into my blood,
making me number and number and number,
'til I can't feel anymore and I'm dead.
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