That Awful Noise Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

A bumblebee sat in a tree,
held for himself a sermon.
'I'm thrilled that I shall never be
a friend of lowly vermin.

They steal the eggs of busy birds
and live in squalid quarters,
use dirty and illegal words,
subsist as system rorters.'

And, having said this, raised his nose,
the odour of surrender
was coming from a lonely rose,
or from a pink lavender.

He swooped and landed on the ground
and searched for such a flower,
in doing this he made THAT sound
that turns sweet milk to sour.

Well, bumblebees, they are a curse,
they never learn to sing,
the song they constantly rehearse
starts out in early Spring.

It ends when snow falls from the sky,
by then no bees are willing
to fertilise, and that is why
there's so much flower killing.