A friend posted on Facebook that there was a piece on the wireless today about mating bees and how unfair it was to the poor drone. I wrote a brace of sonnets about that which will appear in my book of bee-related poetry “Bee People” which is in preparation. Here it is: DRONE
I have an onomatopoeic name
That sounds a little like the noise I make.
I have no sting and I am very tame.
My sisters feed me for the family’s sake,
As with my sperm I may pass on their genes.
Each afternoon I fly to congregate
In places where we might meet virgin queens
And maybe have a chance to copulate.
I’m told that’s where the greatest danger lies:
I guess that swallows try to snap us up.
I see their movements with my compound eyes
And don’t give them a chance on me to sup.
A queen is here! I get her lovely scent!
I wonder what that danger warning meant?
I sense that virgin queen is in the mood;
A thousand other drones here think the same.
It’s likely that a score will score. I’m crude:
To mount while she’s a virgin is my aim!
I know that after me there will be more,
She needs her spermatheca brimming full,
But once deflowered by me she’ll be a whore!
If I’m first, she’s in luck; I’m the prize bull!
She’s just upwind – I think I’m getting close.
That’s her! I have her in my sight.
I’m nearest, what is there to lose?
Got her! I’ll mate with all my might.