(04 October 1943 / Germany)

A Bumblebee's Sweet Destiny

A bumblebee had hitched a ride
by hanging on the starboard side
of Russia's pride, the Aeroflot
right near the engine where it's hot.

The captain got her in the air,
flew straight into the sun's hot glare.
And then they climbed into the sky
to heights where normal creatures die.

The bumblebee had been a shade
of gray and black, like gatorade.
But soon, when covered with fine ice
resembled modified white rice.

The frost cut into his thin skin
and quickly travelled further in.
And once the plane reached altitude
the stowaway, still cold and nude

pledged to his God that he would be,
if saved, a better bumblebee.
But God had heard this song before
and did not trust them anymore,

regardless of their place of birth
or what their role was on this earth.
They lied, all critters and their masters
in peace and threatening disasters.

Please save me, was the standard plea
it was to be or not to be.
But after God had done his deed
they all returned to human need

who would forget their obligation
and practice wanton fornication.
The bumblebee who had good ears
still hung there, though consumed by fears,

when engine trouble hit the Boeing
it was a question now of knowing
what happens when they all just die.
The bee then heard the pilot cry.

And soon, the bird had to descend
no power meant a bitter end.
The bumblebee let go and flew
right past (he saw the frantic crew) .

With wings designed for tempered flight
he soared, it really was a sight!
But when he reached four hundred knots
he heard, and felt the heat of shots,

He saw them now, all hunting duck
well, I'll be damned, they've gone amuck,
they might just hit me in the head
and I will surely be quite dead.

His wings were burning from the speed
the belly skin began to bleed.
So in an act of desperation
he used some clever gravitation

and grabbed a bullet, thirty-eight.
It was in an ascending state
and hit its target in the chest,
right through the mallard's silver crest.

Inside the heart it was quite pleasant,
it smelled of duck, perhaps of pheasant.
The bumblebee revived its blood
and then they landed, with a thud.

He stood, expelled by the contraction
called ventricle ejection fraction.
And as he stretched he heard a noise
and then a hunter's frightened voice.

The plane was now a fireball
and passengers and crew, they all
just perished in a blessed minute.
'Thank Destiny, I wasn't in it.'

As you can see, this tale is odd.
The bee, rejected by his God
had found a friend in destiny
and God had lost a bumblebee.

User Rating: 3,9 / 5 ( 5 votes ) 2

Comments (2)

H, along with your trademark wit, flow, humour and poetic professionalism, I find a bit of Aesop in here too... simply marvellous. t x
This tale is still buzzing around in my head Herbert. What a marvellous story, I really enjoyed reading this, perhaps it aught to be made into a Film. The Kremlin's Gremlin. Lovely write, one of our extra special productions. Love Ernestine XXX