Nothing Left But Wet Willie's Stew, Due, Dew, Do. Poem by Michael Gale

Doth a bee be a flower? ...
Doth it deflower by a flowering bee?
Doth a bee fly by thy flower? ...
Doth it flee for free

Flowers grow tall to tower...
Doth thy power be by flower?
When ye bee by a flower....
Is it thy next to ending hour?

Is thy flower only your's or only our? ...
Doth thy rain pour down yon hour?
Bumbling bees buzz busily by....
Doth it say exiting 'Bye, bye?

Are we stung when flung and hung real high? ...
Do we go on indeed goodbye?
What be these stingers that die? ...
Do they inject through sleighted thigh?

Why do we creatures of nature rely? ...
Do we silently unknowingly reply?
What be this waspy wisp? ...
Is it tendered and cooked real crisp?

Why hath ye bad bumble bee to land on yon bar-b-que grill? ...
Did'st yee thrill to fall and not chill?
Ye be hot and hotter yet....
Cooked for breakfast or lunch room's bet, you bet.

Peanutty brittle full of full dripping spittle...
Not nearly enough but way too much little.
Rain storms thunder and rumble through...
Next morning is nothing left but wet willies stew, due, dew, do.