It was an Ancient Mariner
Who went to Innisfree,
And in a pleasant sunny glade
Was savaged by a bee.
He snatched the crossbow from his back
And shot the creature dead.
Its angry fellows formed a cloud
That swarmed about his head.
But, lightning-swift, his arrows flew
To pierce each apian forehead.
Bean-pole in hand, the Poet sprang,
And cursed a deed so horrid:
“You pestilential Mariner,
You daft, demented sot,
My bee-loud glade is silent now -
You’ve killed the bloody lot!”
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