A FROWARD BEE
A froward bee to a petal clutches,
Pollen decorates its nose,
As a foolish fly the sharp thorn butchers,
On the stem of the lovely rose.
The rain runs down the open gutters,
That sometimes rats do drown,
“Tis a waste of water” the Tom cat utters,
His face creased with a frown.
Leaves from trees the roof top clutters,
And blocks the down pipe good,
That the water burps and starts and stutters,
As it seeps into the mud.
Well in some way what one begrudges,
The other ant takes away,
To drag it over the ground that smudges,
Forming patterns in the clay.
“Look Daddy at those bright green hedges,
With silver cobwebs in the rain
Like tiny little pearly dredgers,
Digging from their leaves the pain”
I guess it’s time again for pledges,
Before they’re all swept down the drain.