That one reads like a winner to me, Frank.

Illumine and Being Human! Terrific, Frank.

Somebody’s trying to make an ass of me,
‘Tis sure. Methinks those rascals, Quince and Snout,
Gleek me for sport. I napped against a tree
And woke translated, with some thickskin lout

Calling me “Butthead,” saying I’d missed my cue.
“D’you want a chance at singing for the Queen
Or not?” says he. “Get up!” Next thing I knew
A groundling mob, well dressed but coarse & mean

(Unarmed with rotten eggs, for which I thanked
Dame Fortune), jeered my name & that sweet song
About my dream. “Sir Bottom’s gotten spanked,”
Cracks a rude wag in front. “Buzzed out! So long!”

‘Twas then (rare vision!) that She did appear—
A Lady all in gold, with ebon brows,
Singing the dream she dreamed. My dulcet dear,
May I not wake till we have ta’en our vows!

Ariel In London, 2011

Where the bee sucked there sucked I.
But here, they tell me, by and by
bees may well no longer suck
since parasites have run amok,
while climate change has also wrecked a
prospect of my finding nectar.

They've offered me a Nectar Card,
a shiny, tasteless, plastic shard.
This substitute has no attraction.
Plastic brings no satisfaction
for a hungry gourmet sprite.
I doubt that I shall last the night.

I'd fly home on my trusty bat,
but just one look has shown me that
the way a bat's built makes it hard
to insert an Oyster Card.