Sting Trilogy, Two: Wasps

At least wasps are honest

and look like the scary bastards that they actually are.

Ghastly, insecty, aerodynamic bodies ready to

attack! attack! attack!

If they could dance,

they would dance like Stalin or Mao,

which is to say:

on the graves of their many victims.

‘Look out for wasps,’

says your dad.

‘They have a limitless supply of stings,

but at least they aren’t as vicious as bee-stings,’

this last point being conjecture

on the part of your dad,

because he’s almost certainly never been stung by a bee,

so how would he know?

Is the wasp,

with its never-ending supply of watered-down stings,

overcome with the need to unburden itself of its stings,

like the sexual urge?

‘I must sting! I must sting!’ thinks the wasp.

‘Look! There’s an eight-year-old boy

having a picnic with his dad;

he’s definitely too stupid to notice me!’

Buzz, zoom, sting, retreat.

Repeat! Repeat! Repeat!

Lands on eight-year-old boy’s hand.

Stings.

All wasps are basically paedophiles,

and, unlike bees, they live forever,

which explains why there are always so many of them.