I Am A Wasp.

I am a wasp.

An eternal, painful memory

in most children’s childhoods,

along with stinging nettles

and the death of their first pet.

I am a wasp.

A rebel without

a cause,

a wild eyed,

slim-ringed loner

with no friends,

or a need for them.

I am a wasp.

I will chase you

when you try to enjoy

your sunny BBQ.

I will sense your fear

as it quenches my thirst for more

as I sit on the rim

of your coca cola can.

I am a wasp,

a layabout,

with no job and no purpose.

Those dumbass drone bees

should be more like me:





My sting does not pull out

after one virginal penetration

into the flesh.

I can do what I want.

Sting who I want.

Whenever I want.

Those bees have nothing on my kind,

with their constant obsessive worry

that if they don’t do

their pathetic,


menial job

the world will end.

So what if it does?

They buzz around,

buzzing away

like busy little bees

that are busy saving the world.

Maybe it was that stress and pressure

that made them so fucking fat.

I am a wasp.

Now fuck off

before I sting you.


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