Hello, Sir Bumble. Do light on my knee.
Where do you live? I fancy, a honey-tree.
Don’t hive, don’t contract work to the sexless;
nor contract your births to the nigh-immobile.
Deliver, then wait with your buckets to draw from
the never-fail vegetable machine—
it knits your woolen jerseys, and
fits your soft pate with black headgear.
Sir Bumble, you need only skim the poppies
and haul pollen-grain; so you’ve time
to talk, to shudder, and mumble at me.
I’m chuffed, chuffed to speak with you here,
Sir Bumble.
-2005
