Bee

Black and yellow little bees,
floating on a summer breeze.
On each flower she does hop
And then back at the hive does stop.

She fills it up with honey sweet.
There is no more delicious treat.
But if back home, I wish to bring
Some honey, she might try to sting.

But though the pain may make me cry,
The bee, you see will surely die.
And so this tale, you see, my friend,
Might have a rather tragic end.