The cheeping birds, abashed and mute,
Have skittered off to search for shade.
Just one lone roysterer, a bee,
Embarrassed at the noise lie’s made,
Whirrs up against a staring pane
And folds his wings and sits him down,
To gaze with apiarian mirth
On strange drab poke and shining crown.
The elders sit in sober rows,
Upon the long, prim, facing-seats;