Bizzy Bee Bondage
The bizzy bee had come to terms with the fire. Her nest had burned to charcoal and ash. She had no need for tears. She had no need for ears. Bees lack such things. There is no remorse for bees, and no fear or self-doubt. Bizzy was a bee, and she knew exactly where to go. Flying high, building up electrostatic charge, the bee cut deep into the flowers as pollen clung to her body.
Miles: Is that a SMILING TURDUCKEN?
Flip: Nah, dog, that's a grewd-dew faced Mr. Snookles. His little hat is missing, so someone gave him a tape measure to wear instead. Look at his pecker! it's also missing!
Miles: You seen that grewd-dew pecker? I ain't never seen one.
Flip: 'Taint nothin special. But maybe someone broke it off and stole it! He's been stone for a while. I think he fell into a beer vat and got turned to some mineral. You can chip away at him, so his pecker probably got picked by some thug.
Miles: that sounds like a douchebag thing to do.
Flying high, building up electrostatic for pollen collection, you found the outcrop where the violets used to grow. They used to grow on the grewd-dew face. He had turned to stone some time ago, but you don't care or understand. You need to collect sustenance and rebuild. You alone, or else the nest won't reappear. You fly like a metaphor in a Tom Waits song, the bee that stings the vagabond asleep in the old barn. You will sting mushroom collectors in the sweltering forest of Dixie.
t b cont.
