A rap poem (or was that a ‘wrap’?) with a painting made especially for the poem by Madja Westermann.
Lily Leigh Drone
Queen Leigh, quiet frotting on her throne,
was popping uppers in her Drone
to hot his heigh-hos into heat
and blitz some light years in his meat.
‘Buzz, Drone,’ she whispered, ‘hit the roof
and stay there till you bring back proof
that your smoke’s hot, your pelt is sleek
and you be more than lung in geek.’
Old Drone rolled over, shot his wings
beyond his black and bright orange rings.
Eyes aglitter like shattering glass
he battered air, slapped her back. ‘Lass,
you watch yourself with that their dope
or hanging you won’t need no rope.
I’m out of here. Your slam yo poetry
will shaft us both. You’ve hit my ‘no’ key.’
‘No, baby, no. Oh god don’t go!
You know I can’t take no Big No.’
Queen Leigh fretted just like she meant it.
But Drone was gone. She’d really bent it.
He buggered off, that big Drone bee,
and flew off past the Dogwood tree
and past that too, to Lilly’s hive.
Lit at her door, and dug her jive.
Drone breached her door, got stuck right in.
His uppers pooped, he dropped his chin.
He dropped his guard. Her guards dropped him
and gimped him bad as Tiny Tim.
They slapped him down, they pinned his wings
and rumbled in his under things.
He screamed at first. They made him coo
then scream again inside the loo.
Dragged from said loo to sad lean-too
beneath the hive, where he came to,
old Drone woke to see blistering tracks
etching down his legs — thick heat — hot wax!
Waxed from his toes to all six hips
Drone cursed and swore off future trips.
He flexed his sting and found it had gone
fishing for a wring for wince too strong.
‘Lily did me,’ he mumbled slack
mandibled, word sense coming back.
‘I’ll get her soon,’ he sissed alone,
nursing grief like an OJ clone.
Back on the hill Leigh missed her thrill.
To stall her chill she posed as shill
for her cousin Jeff’s blue tea dance —
where hornet wasps blocked her entrance.
Leigh found that fine. She did not mind
their histamine. It made her grind
her single eyes to compound pies
of cobalt skies in pasture size.
All rave juiced up Leigh flew her nest,
sought Lily’s lair, heard Drone’s request
to kill or save him, either one would do.
She chose the latter, pranged Lily too.
Drone dragged his butt back home with Leigh
and cried, then bragged, then said he’d stay.
Leigh looked him over. She dug his shtick.
‘Drone baby,’ she said, ‘your legs are slick!’