By: Kosative D.
Here concealed lay Mrs. Dextrose Louise.
Cradling a casket in the afternoon breeze.
Her perfume was fragrant, the waft but a tease.
Such was the flagrant abrupt swarm of bees!
She ran with her baby, to escape such disaster.
The cradle but creaking as the poor dear ran faster.
Faster than a blazing corpse but burns bright!
The infant weeping from the terrible fright.
My oh my, Mrs. Louise could quick run.
Trafficking these bees in the flaming hot sun.
Bursting but faster than her pocket kept gun.
The baby but quaking in the carriage, they’d flung!
The stinging presided.
As the mother burst tears for her infant misguided.
Running, attacked by the hundreds of bees.
Weeping and coughing as she fell to her knees.
The baby was squawking like a group of burnt geese.
The cradle still rolling, with the mother deceased.
Yet strangely enough, the baby did live.
No malice to the infant, not a sting they did give!
The baby was found by an elderly witch.
And she grew to be happy, well taught and rich.