There was much to blame on them, for forgetting the Queen of Bees,

Tragic, stinging moments, within the shifting of the trees,

Massive golden-haired worshippers, with ardour quite sincere,

Though some were unafraid to flee, the Queen they should revere.

Whitest eyes to catch you, in your acts of adoration,

Flitting wing and steady hum, counteracts a rare dissention,

A swelling hive surrounds her, in the fashion of creation,

Well-designed to call to her, this swarming of attention.

A single golden butterfly, lie upon her reddened throat,

Mouth pursed tight into a bow, and icy eyes remote,

A rusty, velvet ribbon clasped, too loose to ever choke,

Its softness and fine beauty, too precious to be broke.

Perfect order, perfect balance, she spawns it all with ease,

Loyalty blinding, her mercy abiding, the workers their disease,

Upon their tiny insides, and their droning hearts she'll feast,

Constant conformity is required, with this paper-manteled beast.