Dressed to the nines
In glove and veil
I head to the bee-box
With knife and pail

A silent prayer
To the Gods that be
And I start to tangle
With the honey bee

My support team
Is on standby
With smoke, though paltry
And many high-fives

But they are all out
I am the only one in
And as I lift the roof
There is a terrific din

Of bee and bee
And bee and bee
And all of them
Are looking at me

I wish I were a rattel then
And could tackle this job
With my rear end
And start to rob

From the hive of bees
If not by charming them
Then at least by
Effectively disarming them

With a smelly broadside
To which the bees
Have no answer but to
Completely cease

The buzzing and droning
And get away, quickly, quickly
From the awful smell
Which makes then sickly, sickly

But I am me
And not a rattel
So I wield the knife
And enter battle

But surprisingly enough
The bees seem tame
I slice the comb
Off from the frame

And again and again
Until they are all done
And the bees are left
With only one

The roof goes on
And I step out
Beaming broadly
After that friendly bout

Then as we all sit and
Lick our fingers
And the memory of that
First foray lingers

I send a silent prayer up
To the Gods that be
In thanksgiving for
This lick of honey