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The Bee
Alas has no space
Though a lot does
But no space for great-grandfather
Or the boy who thought there was
Which witch just said
It is bear and not bare
And with that
Their kid is crying over there
Remember pour, not poor
And flour, not flower
No flower for the poor girl
Who poured out the flour
Who’s minding whose business
It’s different than its
That apostrophe catastrophe
Took out little miss
There’s no saint like Saint John
Though there may be in May
But that capital notion
Just ruined his day
Now thinking about
Round pants for a clown
And ouch, now another one
Has fallen down
Ah but in victory
There’s a sweetness it seems
But oh, kid, be careful
That bee surely stings
