Hello, bumblebutt.

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Not to be a droning bother, but this bumbler does not be.
I suggest the swift removal of that final syllabumble,
Syllababble,
Oh, the end bit of that jumble,
Where the meaning doesn’t fit!
Watch him tumble over brambles,
Tripping, fumble under leaves,
Emerging up from under, over-balance drunkenly,
Ducking in and sucking nectar, bumble-butting in the sun,
Gold with pollen, sign of working over-time and under-fun.
Here’s a bee that’s never been.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen,
Restful wings and well-swept coat,
On a flower at his ease.
He’s not got a smoking jacket, as some dapper buzzers do,
Sleek and stylish does not suit his dusty on-the-move caboose.
No I’ve never seen him bee-ing, so I shall not call him that.
See him rumbling, rear-end outward? I will call him “Bumblebutt.”