This man is the bee's knees, Arthur, he is the wasp's nipples. He is, I would go so far as to say, the entire set of erogenous zones of every major flying insect of the Western world.

Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry.
Katherine: If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
Petruchio: My remedy is then, to pluck it out.
Katherine: Ay, if the fool could find where it lies.
Petruchio: Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail.
Katherine: In his tongue.
Petruchio: Whose tongue?
Katherine: Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell.
Petruchio: What, with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

... I say and maintain, that of all torcheculs, arsewisps, bumfodders, tail-napkins, bunghole cleansers, and wipe-breeches, there is none in the world comparable to the neck of a goose ...

If He exists the creator has an inordinate fondness for beetles.

The Wart’s own special one was called Cavall, and he happened to be licking Cavall’s nose - not the other way about - when Merlyn came in and found him.
That will be regarded as an unsanitary habit,” said Merlyn, “though I cannot see it myself. After all, God made the creature’s nose just as well as he made your tongue.

Being kissed on the back
of the knee is a moth
at the windowscreen....

THE THREE BEES by Suzy Kassem

A young boy once asked
A wealthy beekeeper:
“What is the secret of
Your success?”

The beekeeper simply smiled
And replied:

“To be successful,
One has to be one of three bees:
The queen bee,
The hardest working bee,
Or the bee that does not fit in.
One success is inherited,
And the next one is earned.
While the last one is
Self-sought,
Self-served,
And happens on its own
Terms.”

“And which bee are you?”
Asked the boy.
The beekeeper then wiped
The sweat from his head
And said:
“The last may seem the riskiest,
But the glory of achievement
Is the most rewarding.
Freedom always comes at a high cost,
But only when you are
Your own boss,
Can you truly
Afford it.”

(Suzy Kassem Poetry)

When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.

Every saint has a bee in his halo.

I'm the absolute queen bee of unrequited love.

- Birds fly like birds and a man who has taken the devil's weed flies as such.
- As birds do?
- No, he flies as a man who has taken the weed.

The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.

Are nothing to the bee; His separation from his rose To him seems misery.

He's as nutty as a vegan T-bone.