Bees, please, you must fly out of my bonnet,
I’ve relied too much on your honeycomb.
A sugary sonnet, I don’t want it,
but can’t break habit til temptation’s gone.
Bees, too often I’ve let your syrup slip
sticky slippers on my poetic feet,
cloy-clad, they do not walk, they only sit;
swarm away bees and sting me when we meet.
Took off my bonnet, put on a chef’s hat,
cooked sonnet spaghetti, sauce this and that.