With ribbons bound there's swarms of b's without.
If a honey combs her hair the limit
Is reached when she breaks out in hives to shout!
The neck, to her, is something to be wringed,
Like nectar wrung from unsuspecting blooms;
Less furry fury took to flight and winged
With buzzwords barked like supersonic booms!
Alas! a lass with bee in her bonnet,
By hap in flap with what's before her eyes,
Finds paper not averse but what's on it:
What sonnet could be easier to despise?
What's done is done, but, stung, she still would sting,
And cut to ribbons more than this offering!
After two soppier poems, I thought it was time for a slightly more whimsical approach to romantic rhyme. This one simply came from musing on the popular phrase 'a bee in her bonnet', and -not to have a bee in mine - but it's strictly not autobiographical! I've never had such an amusingly hostile response as yet.
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