low hanging myrtle truths once banished by white decree come home to roost — is there still honey for tea, Rupert? Ask bumblebees of floating greybore voters.
‘We’d hoped they’d all perished in the recent cold snap. old chap.’
Still a few stiffs left out in busted shelters, wheelie bins or found sat bolt upright dead on bent up knees by watching doggers
noxious nectar dribbling from well spiced cardboard coffin ship, apparently a Cambridge boffin, one of them a pal of Stephen Hawking but the wrong denomination for the Queen of the Bees Knees