In my wall, are the bees Now for two years they've danced Around in that trance for their queen In my call, are the bees Because, I hear them when I sleep Best when I'm down, and letting go of my assemblage point, round With a stretch like a pipe I might try to understand these bees. I press my hand to the wall It is queerly warm, alive Bees do a secret song and dance late in the night. One I had never heard, but the Gods have been kind to me this year, and I have lived with bee, and my wife and sons, a luckily charmed life, and now I've learned the refinement of honey the sacrifice for family. They go in and out of hole, But on the in -- it is wide, and long, and boxed up strong between us, and them, and very late at night On occasion, we hear a song Trippy, and perfectly timed out she sings to her children, and I sing to mine of time, and honey Of land, and creature Of swell, and nature. My wife says, "You have gave up on killing the bees?" I reply, "And myself" She smiles, and she too has the stick of honey She too is the buzz of wing, but what she doesn't know is that the landlord sent the men to remove the queen, and now the rest will die. We must leave this city, and not ask why Leave this city, and our honey, on the fly Into the night; on a whim that was borrowed He owns the queen, the bees, and tomorrow.