Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori

It was first light on a cool morning in autumn. A sea breeze gently swung across the farm. The evil farmer arose from a deep slumber, put on her black boots and old coat and went outside to take what was hers…

The sweet, late summer nectar oozed out of the hives in deep, golden drops. She could smell it. Taste it on her tongue. Feel it in her heart. Under her breathe the farmer menacingly whispered, “it will be mine. All mine”. But on this day her greed betrayed her. The wind caught her voice and carried it to the bees.

Eric the half a bee was on early morning reconnaissance when he heard the farmer’s greedy whisperings. He sounded the alarm. The finest crack squad of assault bees awoke from their slumber with the voice of Eric on the intercom buzzing in their tiny ears. “Code black and yellow! Code black and yellow! We are under attack!”

Before the farmer could fathom what was happening a tornado of bees buzzed around her. Bzzzz, Sting! Bzzzz, Sting! Ouch! Ouch! “You bastard bees. You may have won the battle but not the war” she cried as she retreated to the safety of the house, swelling like raspberry.

On the grass below lay the dying bees that had given their life for the hive. They would be remembered! Honoured for eternity! Old bees with one wing and a crutch would say to the young larvae only one thing:

Dulce et decorum est pro patira mori.