The Hive Mind

O, for some mead to slake my thirst!
But where are the winged ambrosia-bearers?
There they are, circling the garden yonder.
Who can blame them? They're driven by instinct:
Honeybees seek out the prettiest flowers;
They cluster around them, drawn to the nectar
Of toothsome youth, whilst I, wilted plant,
The odious stinkweed of yesteryear,
Languish in this sunless crook.
If only by some antennal means
I could telecommunicate my need
To the barkeep, and bid him come hither at once,
As he, too, is spellbound and in a trance--
Beguiled, beauty-bombed, and badly bemused,
He goggles with longing at the bouquet;
He’s blind and deaf to anything but.
Beware, little swervers addicted to sweets,
Some succulent treats in the meadow that lure
Are carnivorous and will suck you dry.