Beauty, my dear friend is something that hits your eye but can, at the same time, dreadfully hurt your hand.

My dear father explained
years ago in my ladhood
That beauty is in the eye of the man holding the bee.

Strange though it may seem
This is what my father taught.
And he did seem quite confident on this point.

Though his premature death
made further explanation unavailable
I have taken upon myself the practice of putting every girl I date to the venerable bee test.

Curious to them
as it is painful to me
it keeps my hands to myself at least for a time. They seem to appreciate that.

With that bumble or wasp held firmly in palms’ cavern
I gaze upon the object of my suspected affection.
Putting an end to conjecture, I subject her.
To the view amidst the familiar tears
that well up in my eyes as my insectual guest loses patience with his entrapment.

I open my hands and set him free
and through the tears of pain I gaze upon my gal.
If through blur I concur with previous assessment.
The evening continues.
Though first mendicament.
Ah and if per chance her countenance is lacking.
As I release the bee I send her packing.

‘Tis an odd ritual I don’t deny.
But father planted the seed, so who am I?
To walk away from such a thing.
Simply because I dread a sting?

For the love of my life I continue the search.
And this trusty test won’t leave me in the lurch.
I’m sure it’ll lead me and I’ll long to hold her.
For beauty, I know, is in the eye of the bee holder.