Worker Bee

“Golly,” said the worker bee,
whose wings ever-tired and days never-free,

“Life is tough.”

But persevere indeed did the worker bee,
who on its worst days sung twiddle-dum, twiddle dee,

Going about, getting nectar from flowers and such.

“Golly,” said the worker bee,
who was returning to its nest on a great oak-tree,

SPLAT!

The worker bee was flattened across the windshield of Suzanne Mason’s Honda Accord Crosstour SUV, who was driving her two sons to basketball practice.

The worker bee hit the corner of the window, so it was not seen.
The worker bee was hit when Mrs. Mason was yelling at her children, so it was not heard.
The worker bee had never talked to its queen, so it was not remembered.

His entire existence came down to exerting about 0.00003 Newtons on the face of a car.

“Golly,” said the worker bee, its dying breath,
“What was that all about?”