Honey is spilled down the kitchen sink.
Sifted and strained, the aroma remains.
Sweet as the pollen in the peony’s frame.
But ants grow envious of an intrinsic claim.
For bees are masters in this craft to be tame.
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Honey has dripped down the counter’s top.
To stick and slide whilst ignored by the mop.
Ants in the house are curious for such crop.
Where bees no longer greed gold in a shop.
Ants like a bee, rejoined to what’s sweet,
Means, there is no need, for the peony.
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