The Rose And The Bee Poem by Felix Emeka George

Hear today, of tomorrow, of my words
That you would called history, but
Is my witness against you
Ken unknown, and unsay
Please, ruminants over this will
And consider rightly
As you have a king sits,
Prepare to swallow and wallow
To think of the matter,
You do not love brutish beasts
And mark them in case
I am dead And I must out
Lest I dropped in the course
For I know the devil
Like the rose and beautiful bee.

There's bloush sweet smelling savour of rose
In this bliss days of gentle sits
In content smile as quite heard
The bees noised in gyrating bloosm
‘there's no cherub on heaven like her
Now mark her
The majestical magicial of hand wand
Soon showing wonders on the roses'

Folling the enumerated sequential theme
Thus, no rose no torns
As the trunk
With spirit that upholds it,
To the bees closed hive
A walk of exchange,
A mirror of mackerel
To the might monsieur faces.
The odd ropes and second-tie-suit
With a suede to suit as they do
In the arid land.
In libeling our ogogoro as illicit drink
To bring champing and dry gin
Of their science
To turn torn our heads
To pick some ill sticks of confusion
That sounds
Is a grenadier thundrer and
With effects interesting afar to fall soul
Into a beautiful chaos
And the lips to kiss the earth
Bliss of assuit giving to the rose
A powerful malodorous stench of rotten fish

Our market sold of white giants elephant
In tern to tredded the roses reigning
To salute the beautiful rose in rage,
For pricks of sun and rain weather
In coastal Bar raccoon's hive for honey

The journey is not a tale fairly one
Of folklore which in dropped dead
In the deasert food for vulture and flies
In three angle-walk of curse-course
Of century. And
Those who are overboard fish feeds
on their prayer answered
As hunters breaks out epidemics
Claims many die-t
For there purchased are many purposes varies
variable in dentifiable of luxury sweets
than turned impotent man into gladiator
an ugly surfaced to labourer
in easy going

I know the, the devil?
The guinea fowl (white birds) that's an angel
When takes feathers of it own
Like yester years games of an ants
There are here again
Mark them coming to add sweetness
In my hallowness from lottering winning,
Another majic power of beautiful nonsense
That matter appetities young preys
Known roses love to brutish beasts
In furnance
The same streams sip of sweetness dry
Stinging and deformed the skin
Into pole mole ulcer
I have tested the honey
I didn't I need the sting
And the sip of the bees'

Let me quite quit on a tangent
On my witness and
Let the silent come now.