I never, never could admit
The virtues of the bee;
I thought she seemed a dreadful prig
When I was small, and now I'm big
I see she is a hypocrite,
And so, of course, are we.
It's true she rushes to and fro
With business promptitude,
But what about the busy ant?
Oh, let us clear our minds of cant--
Why _is_ it that we love her so?
_She manufactures food._
But not for us. If it were shown
She organised the feast
For _us_ to eat, one might agree
About her virtue; but, you see,
She does it for herself alone,
The greedy little beast!
So grasping is the little dear
That every now and then
She readjusts the ration scales
By simply murdering the males,
With many a base, malicious jeer
At "idle gentlemen."
Nor does a man of us cry "Shame!"
Though every man would own
If there is one high hope for which
He labours on at fever-pitch
It is not honour, wealth or fame--
He wants to be a drone.
Why is it, then, we don't abhor
This horrid little prude?
Why don't we cast the foullest slur
On such a Prussian character?
Because, as I remarked before,
_She manufactures food_.
The world is full of beasts, my son,
And I know two or three
That any parent might employ
To be a model for their boy,
But take my word, we've overdone
The insufferable bee.