Drone

I’m not a soldier or a bee, but when I’m passing through

You might mistakenly think me a drone, for what I do,

More than a bagpipe ever did, is blow and bloviate

And buzz so much–I do not kid–you’ll wish the kinder fate

Of early death, deafness at least, enveloping with fog

Your tender soul, until it’s ceased–my tedious monologue.