Of all the things that I see,
There is nothing like a Honey Bee.
A bee that toils for hours and hours,
While flying about to blossoms and flowers.
The packets on his tiny legs,
Accumulates the pollen that he drags,
From flower and blossom, flittering there
And returning to his hive, with great care.
The pollen is transformed into golden honey.
Late in the Fall, it will be sold for money.
The Honey Bee has something to dread
If it stings, it will soon be dead.
For unlike a Hornet or a Wasp
The bee's stinger is barbed and lost
When it stings to protect the hive
And the cost is it's life.