the population controller
slips into disguise
his charming suit
his veil of words
conceals his gaze
he has laid out the fields
and filled them with blossoms
and counted the money jars
in his SimCity slim city
androgyn sharp
bodies are worry perfect
slicked back souped up
cool as drones
the neutered ones
will dance for one another
in the pages of glib
they make their ideal
hexagonal cubicles
gleam with honey
they gel their wings
catch their reflections
in passing pools
hope theyll win
somehow against
the odds
they wont
the beekeeper has
a boxed and ready fear
of bees
he wont
let them forget
he tells them
duty honour
the sacredness of home
and holds a smoking gun
for dissident and obedient alike
those who gather in the courtyards
of fame hell teach his rules
those who gather in the squares
hell fight with guns and scorn
those who write destinations in the air
hell silence
his fields and his alone
are edible hell say
and all the rest are poison
and all those who disagree
are fools or mad
and must be fought
for sanity and for country
and the bees obey
