Honey Bee Blues, from the bars in Toulouse,
drift across the Channel to the nine o’clock news,
where they buzz and they bumble, with garlic and wine,
till the weatherman catches them at half past nine.
But the blues cannot stay,
they must fly, they must play,
so the weatherman claps, and they all run away.

Then the wine becomes flushed,
and the garlic feels crushed,

but the honey bees dance,
till the world becomes hushed.