Hello. My name is Lord Mollington Esq, but you can call me Molly.|
I may have rage issues.
Of the BumblebeeSome writers delight in conversing with birds;Of the Bumblebee by JesterSeven
Wingd bearers of mystical grace,
But the one I prefer for the wine in my words
Is found in a humbler space.
Some poets like those in fond elegance dressed,
In feathers of red or azure,
Praising the rest in their colours so blessd,
I nod and say my muse has fur,
Of yellow and black, little fellow, the jack
In the pit of his daffodil home;
He wanders on winglets and winds, bringing back
On his bristles the scents of the loam.
He harks when hes near, always humming a bar,
Notes drifting, a whispering sound.
In the heath or the trees, neath a leaf, never far,
In the garden hes always around.
While the birds, never shy, raise their voices up high,
My maestro speaks only to me,
But only when I have the patience to lie
And listen so delicately.
And while the birds throw their chords, and aloof, chase the hours
This diminutive bard of reserve
Arranges the petals and beds in the flowrs
In my orc