Wednesday, May 21, 2025



In a corner of the garden, lies this pot by the side
Into which I used to compost any food I’d want to hide
I kept it closed and alone, for a pot likes to brood
Anyways, you could argue, it makes compost out of food.

When I picked the lid up that day, I heard a buzzing refrain
But (being a genius, you see), I thought it was my brain
Out came a thousand petulant bees, in an angry mood to sting
That is bad manners, I think. The bell they ought to ring.

All the lessons that they teach you on diving from the bees
Are completely useless, I promise. They just want the fees
The only thing to do is Run, over land and over sea
Followed in your wake by a very determined bee.

So I sprinted (having seen videos of the Jalikattu Bolt)
Yet the visible parts of me were hit by a hundred and forty volt
Bees don’t like writers anymore (and they like poets even less)
And this is their malevolent display to rid themselves of stress.

A stinger here, a stinger there, treated with ice and salt
(The ice had been forming nicely for an evening’s single malt)
I now stick to Dire Straits and skip Scorpion and Mr Sting
Never push your luck, I reckon, for what will music bring?

But every cloud, they say, has a silver perimeter
I have a ghastly ex-boss, a Glassdoor history-sheeter
Who thinks he’s bright & capable (the idiot) and boastfully intrepid
I will call him home one day and ask him to open the lid.
 

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