Bees Athirst Poem by james watkin

Enter into our golden sound's
Mid-morn wassail most, by way
Of thyme, lavender. A chosen few,
Of feeling, rose-soft, hark on through.
With a step to match, love's bright day
Who themselves bring with them do.

Escaped our heed did one alone;
Til of him, the brat, by noon
Were laughed down at! Bees most stout
With striped velvet bottoms stuck out
Vats the size of what for Cardoon
In swilling noise shook about.