New Yorker Magazine 1945 "The breeding of the bee," says a United States Department of Agriculture bulletin on artificial insemination, has always been handicapped by the fact that the queen mates in the air with whatever drone she encounters." When the air is wine and the wind is free and the morning sits on the lovely lea and sunlight ripples on every tree Then love-in-air is the thing for me I'm a bee, I'm a ravishing, rollicking, young queen bee, That's me. I wish to state that I think it's great, Oh, it's simply rare in the upper air, It's the place to pair With a bee. Let old geneticists plot and plan, They're stuffy people, to a man; Let gossips whisper behind their fan. (Oh, she does? Buzz, buzz, buzz!) My nuptial flight is sheer delight; I'm a giddy girl who likes to swirl, To fly and soar And fly some more, I'm a bee. And I wish to state that I'll always mate With whatever drone I encounter. There's a kind of a wild and glad elation In the natural way of insemination; Who thinks that love is a handicap Is a fuddydud and a common sap, For I am a queen and I am a bee, I'm devil-may-care and I'm fancy-free, The test tube doesn't appeal to me, Not me, I'm a bee. And I'm here to state that I'll always mate With whatever drone I encounter. Mares and cows. by calculating, Improve themselves with loveless mating, Let groundlings breed in the modern fashion, I'll stick to the air and the grand old passion; I may be small and I'm just a bee But I won't have science improving me, Not me, I'm a bee. On a day that's fair with a wind that's free, Any old drone is a lad for me. I've no flair for love moderne, It's far too studied, far too stern, I'm just a bee---I'm wild, I'm free, That's me. I can't afford to be too choosy; In every queen there's a touch of floozy, And it's simply rare In the upper air And I wish to state That I'll always mate With whatever drone I encounter. Man is a fool for the latest movement, He broods and broods on race improvement; What boots it to improve a bee If it means the end of ecstasy? (He ought to be there On a day that's fair, Oh, it's simply rare. For a bee.) Man's so wise he is growing foolish, Some of his schemes are downright ghoulish; He owns a bomb that'll end creation And he wants to change the sex relation, He thinks that love is a handicap, He's a fuddydud, he's a simple sap; Man is a meddler, man's a boob, He looks for love in the depths of a tube, His restless mind is forever ranging, He thinks he's advancing as long as he's changing, He cracks the atom, he racks his skull, Man is meddlesome, man is dull, Man is busy instead of idle, Man is alarmingly suicidal, Me, I am a bee. I am a bee and I simply love it, I am a bee and I'm darn glad of it, I am a bee, I know about love: You go upstairs, you go above, You do not pause to dine or sup, The sky won't wait ---it's a long trip up; You rise, you soar, you take the blue, It's you and me, kid, me and you, It's everything, it's the nearest drone, It's never a thing that you find alone. I'm a bee, I'm free. If any old farmer can keep and hive me, Then any old drone may catch and wife me; I'm sorry for creatures who cannot pair On a gorgeous day in the upper air, I'm sorry for cows that have to boast Of affairs they've had by parcel post, I'm sorry for a man with his plots and guile, His test-tube manner, his test-tube smile; I'll multiply and I'll increase As I always have---by mere caprice; For I am a queen and I am a bee, I'm devil-may-care and I'm fancy-free, Love-in-air is the thing for me, Oh, it's simply rare In the beautiful air, And I wish to state That I'll always mate With whatever drone I encounter.
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