When

And If,

One treacherous,

Yet,

Beautiful weekday evening,

Every firefly is

All-at-once

 Plucked from the sky,

(Like  a feather from a fowl )

On some cruel and lonely

Farm,

Far,

Far,

Away,

By an always animated farmer,

Dressed quite casually,

In ancient overalls.

The bumblebees will hang their head’s,

And sheath their stingers.

( However, only for a moment.)

Because after a  long day,

Of sweet talking the hungry hibiscuses,

They’ll have to find the strength,

And establish enough energy,

To pollenate the stars,

Too.