Wasp in Cider

A diminutive militarist,
fitted in infinitesimal resentment,
jacketed in black and bisque,
with limbs the lines of a thumbprint.

To this miniature mujahideen,
this little Armalite, this resolute rev,
the scene is proportionally obscene.
To us! A miniscule expletive.

This is the end of the monarchy;
with a glass rim for a corona,
her tergum dipped in honey
and a fatally messy metasoma,

the Lilliputian peril of a mother
trying to remain dignified
notwithstanding the perimeter
of slow saccharine insecticide

before the interjection of a forefinger
from a coarse summering Cockney
who plays Olympian to the Apocrita,
bemoaning his sullied Somersby.