The Plight of the Bumblebee


I am a bumblebee.

My life begins

as an ugly, gormless maggot.

From there,

things can only go up, right?

Well, you'd be wrong.


We bees are like slaves.

Indoctrinated into the Cult of the Worker

from the very beginning.

All day,

I dream of the time

where I can flit from flower to flower

by my own free will.

Where I can blunder about

as I please, without

fear of retribution from that despot,

the Queen Bee.

Oh, you believe we'd be happy,

wouldn't you,

buzzing and humming

as we lap up the sweet nectar,

the resplendent sun shining behind us.

Well, you'd be wrong.


Collecting nectar is weary work.

And heaven help you

if you encounter one of those stupid dogs

- or human beings -

up close.

Then you're obligated to sting them -

"For the hive!" they say.

When you lose your stinger,


Every voyage to the flower fields

could be a one-way ticket to suicide,

self-destruction, and martyrdom -

"For the hive!"

Oh, you believe we'd be honoured,

wouldn't you,

to be burdened with such duty?

Well, you'd be wrong.


I am a bumblebee.

My life ends

stingerless, dejected, deserted.

From there,

death is welcome, no?

Well, you'd be right.