Mark Heathcote

A tenant is he the would-be bee
Too husband a flower.
That wishes not, her ambles free
In fear of the seed-plougher!

O her rose of purest white
Now crimsons the purple night
Clings ravenous the bower
That would-be sting endower!

O she would, encapsulate!
All of his space and time...,
O she would, emasculate!
Him, bring him unto her climb.

Bring him unto her watchtower!
He a homeless tenant, outlier...
He is her; man of the hour!
He is to be her bee emulsifier.