He has a head like a little flower,
a ruff like a lion's around his neck.
All day long he dreams of having power—
if he has to charge someone, what the heck?
I really think he likes to dream of life,
what it would be like to be on his own,
to be in charge and to have his own wife—
especially when I get on the phone.
But it is easier to live with me,
to not worry where his next meal comes from.
I feel for him then, the poor little bee:
the turmoil he feels when I tell him come.
So I live with him and he lives with me,
and in our faults by lies we flattered be.
© Julianne Carlile