Worker Bees

Busy little worker bees, 
Live in hives, 
On my backyard trees.

I have seen them work, 
And work, 
And work, 
All day, 
I have seen them working, 
While I play.

Little bees that spend hour after hour, 
Busy buzzing from flower to flower, 
Collecting sweet nectar, 
Then back to the hive, 
Gathering all day, 
So the hive can survive.

My tummy grumbles, 
I need something to eat, 
What about their honey? 
A taste so sweet, 
It can't be beat.

You may ask, 
What have I done to deserve a taste of the honey? 
Absolutely Nothing! 
But this does not matter to me.

Careful, Quiet 
I creep up to the trees, 
Agitate, 
Is something you don't want to do to the bees.

A slow steady reach, 
I am now invading their home, 
A hard lesson followed, 
I should have left the hive alone.

Not one, 
Not two, 
But a swarm barged out buzzing, 
Upset by my theft, 
They began their revengeful stinging.

I ran scared, 
Unsure of what to do, 
The bees fiercely piercing me, 
Mumbling, 
'Next time don't take what doesn't belong to you.'