Plastic people are helping a bee, which may be dead.
They bandage its arm, and undislocate its head.
They carry him to hospital, being cautious.
They feed him food, not very delicious.
Finally he is better, all safe now.
But then it happens again, how?
So again it has its treatment, to make him far from ill.
Like reversible’s always say, where there’s a way, there’s a will.
Now that was a poem all about bees,
And how they hurt and scrape their knees,
But most importantly, they are quite clumsy,
And sometimes shout “Where’s my mumsie?”
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