Out of the strong cometh forth sweetness.



Brits at least, will know that line,
On treacle cans 'twas read,
With bees around recumbent lion,
Who's sleeping, maybe dead.



The bees of death are big and black,
They sound just like a Honda,
They daily fill their pollen sacks
From graveyards over yonder.

The trees of death are tall and gaunt,
With branches quite skeletal;
And there within the bark's deep cracks
There dwells the life watch beetle.

The lawns of death, obsidian hued,
Wherein black worms do writhe,
Are kept so trim and neat by means 
Of death's gigantic scythe.

The death of death, though oft foretold
Is yet uneconomic,
Despite things pharmaceuticl
And maps of things genomic.

The life of death is truly hard,
With ne'er a moments peace,
For every minute, every hour,
Someone meets their decease.


"The bees of Death are big and black,"
'Twas Terry Pratchett wrote it,
He used it as a book's first line,
And I just stole and quote it.

* "Eric" by Terry Pratchett, one of the hilarious Discworld novels.

 

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Last updated: Tue, 27 Jun 2000.