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​This poem was discovered in the December 1992 "Buzzer"

​By Maynard Curtis

Twas the night before Christmas when I woke from my slumber;

     I dreamed of my bees, and the stress they were under.

I opened my curtains and through new falling snow,

     I could see all my hives, neatly stacked in a row.

It seemed in a dream, I had lost all my bee,

     Some had run out of feed, Some had died with disease;

Some of the lids had blown off and were not replaced,

     Some were ravaged with mice, and were sorely disgraced.

I consoled myself thinking, “Oh, it’s only a scare,

     For my bees to disappoint me, why – They wouldn’t dare!”

But still, I was lax, in their care, I agreed,

     Did I take too much honey, and rob them of feed?

Did I reduce each hives entrance, to keep the mice out?

     And feed antibiotics to leave me no doubt?

Well, I may have neglected my duty, ‘tis true.

     What the bees can’t accomplish, ‘tis my duty to do.

Come morning, I’ll check to assure me it’s so,

     You’ll have feed and protection from now on I know.

Then I can say to my bees, who provide such delight,

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and to all a good night.

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​​THE "BUZZER" NEWSLETTER has had some entertaining bits of humber in past years.

   Here is but a sample:

​This poem was discovered in the January 1988 "Buzzer"

​By Maynard Curtis, Editor

Happy New Year!  - filled with promises, to the keeper of the bees,

   Who have reaped a abounteous harvest from the clovers and the trees;

Now the bees are very sleepy, for their season's work is thru

   What a pleasure working with them even with a sting or two.

So we're anxious, looking forward, stupid methods relegate,

   Better plannings, better harvest in the year of '88. 

​This poem was discovered in the April 1995 "Buzzer"

​By Anonymous

Oh, little pill, here in my hand; I wonder how you understand 
just what to do or where to go, to stop the aches that hurt me so. 
You work in regions there below, as down my throat you quickly go. 

But how, I wonder, little pill, how do you know where I am ill? 
And, just how do you really know just where you are supposed to go? 
I've got a headache, that is true; my broken bones need attention, too. 
But, how can anything so small, end my aches in no time at all? 

Do you work alone, or do you hire a crew, to do the good things that you do? 
I'm counting on you mighty strong, to get in there where you belong. 
But, don't let me down, and do not shirk, but do your undercover work. 
So, down my throat, be on your way, and end my aches another day. 
Don't take a wrong turn, is my plea; my next pill doesn't come till after three!