Bumblebee Tree

There’s a place I know beyond the peach groves
Beyond the graveyard of rusted kitchen stoves
A place where a tree hums and sings with ease
The mystical tree, which grows fat bumblebees

You might think it weird or maybe just a lark
That there’s a tree covered in bees instead of, well, bark
But this I will tell you, this is something I’ll say
You don’t want to mess with that tree, listen to me OK?

The tree is made of pollen, not oyster or clam
Not even eggs, toast, sausage, bacon or ham
The bees they like to gather, and gather they do
To plot a nasty plan about stinging and killing you

So don’t go past all of the ol’ peach groves
Bypass the graveyard of rusted kitchen stoves
The bees like their pollen, so much that they might kill
And what good would you be, lying there still?