Make sense this time
said the budding flower
get a life said the tree
make something of yourself said the pot
then they all died
except for the pot
who was made of death
and held the water carefully
as the bee landed on the lip
and said,
See my short life,
visiting the tree
and the flower
and the pot,
I have no time for poems
and I am more useful than you
for no one writes odes
to the poet who writes odes to me,
the bee
david michael jackson