Bee Lore

Extract from the New Yorker Magazine 1945:

“The breeding of the bee,” says a United States Department

of Agriculture bulletin on artificial insemination,

“has always been handicapped by the fact that the queen

When the air is wine and the wind is free 

and the morning sits on the lovely lea

and sunlight ripples on every tree

Then love-in-air is the thing for me

I’m a bee,

I’m a ravishing, rollicking, young queen bee,

That’s me.

I wish to state that I think it’s great,

Oh, it’s simply rare in the upper air,

It’s the place to pair

With a bee.

Let old geneticists plot and plan,

They’re stuffy people, to a man;

Let gossips whisper behind their fan.

(Oh, she does?

Buzz, buzz, buzz!)

My nuptial flight is sheer delight;

I’m a giddy girl who likes to swirl,

To fly and soar

And fly some more,

I’m a bee.

And I wish to state that I’ll always mate

With whatever drone I encounter.

There’s a kind of a wild and glad elation

In the natural way of insemination;

Who thinks that love is a handicap

Is a fuddydud and a common sap,

For I am a queen and I am a bee,

I’m devil-may-care and I’m fancy-free,

The test tube doesn’t appeal to me,

Not me,

I’m a bee.

And I’m here to state that I’ll always mate

With whatever drone I encounter.

Mares and cows. by calculating,

Improve themselves with loveless mating,

Let groundlings breed in the modern fashion,

I’ll stick to the air and the grand old passion;

I may be small and I’m just a bee

But I won’t have science improving me,

Not me,

I’m a bee.

On a day that’s fair with a wind that’s free,

Any old drone is a lad for me.

I’ve no flair for love moderne,

It’s far too studied, far too stern,

I’m just a bee—I’m wild, I’m free,

That’s me.

I can’t afford to be too choosy;

In every queen there’s a touch of floozy,

And it’s simply rare

In the upper air

And I wish to state

That I’ll always mate

With whatever drone I encounter.

Man is a fool for the latest movement,

He broods and broods on race improvement;

What boots it to improve a bee

If it means the end of ecstasy?

(He ought to be there

On a day that’s fair,

Oh, it’s simply rare.

For a bee.)

Man’s so wise he is growing foolish,

Some of his schemes are downright ghoulish;

He owns a bomb that’ll end creation

And he wants to change the sex relation,

He thinks that love is a handicap,

He’s a fuddydud, he’s a simple sap;

Man is a meddler, man’s a boob,

He looks for love in the depths of a tube,

His restless mind is forever ranging,

He thinks he’s advancing as long as he’s changing,

He cracks the atom, he racks his skull,

Man is meddlesome, man is dull,

Man is busy instead of idle,

Man is alarmingly suicidal,

Me, I am a bee.

I am a bee and I simply love it,

I am a bee and I’m darn glad of it,

I am a bee, I know about love:

You go upstairs, you go above,

You do not pause to dine or sup,

The sky won’t wait —it’s a long trip up;

You rise, you soar, you take the blue,

It’s you and me, kid, me and you,

It’s everything, it’s the nearest drone,

It’s never a thing that you find alone.

I’m a bee,

I’m free.

If any old farmer can keep and hive me,

Then any old drone may catch and wife me;

I’m sorry for creatures who cannot pair

On a gorgeous day in the upper air,

I’m sorry for cows that have to boast

Of affairs they’ve had by parcel post,

I’m sorry for a man with his plots and guile,

His test-tube manner, his test-tube smile;

I’ll multiply and I’ll increase

As I always have—by mere caprice;

For I am a queen and I am a bee,

I’m devil-may-care and I’m fancy-free,

Love-in-air is the thing for me,

Oh, it’s simply rare

In the beautiful air,

And I wish to state

That I’ll always mate

With whatever drone I encounter.

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From: http://ourworld.compuserve.com/homepages/beekeeping/ebwhite.htm