Wandering, wandering, ‘round and about,
A blundering, thundering man so stout
Sat atop his highest of high horses, you see,
But alas! They say he was stung by a bee.
This bee, too, wandered ‘round and about,
And showed the stout little man no doubt.
Yet mercy was granted to this blundering one,
For his thundering echoed beneath the sun.
Though stout he was, his height none would mock—
Even tall men feared his wrath’s hard knock.
Yet a small bee, striped in black and white,
Could humble the giant, ground his flight.