We gather by the hives on the third level
(Bees outside, and all of us safely in).
Lords and ladies of a modern Round Table,
With no Excalibur except a pen.

Musicians of the word, we improvise,
We sit and jam, we play our latest stuff,
And our eyes widen at each fresh surprise:
A well-wrought line, a virtuoso riff!

We're storytellers and we're songwriters
Who sing of love, of politics, of nature,
Our minds beguiled by some enticing feature
Of this bright precinct of the universe.

   We're getting woozy from each other's words:
   We few, we happy few, we band of bards.