The bee that rovers in summer looks not for honeydew,
Nor it looks for a fragrant Floweret or a peck of gold.
But it looks for a special flower that's budding new;
That I believe for I was told.

And what special flower will it get from a million flowerets,
The bright red cinnamon or the blue fragrant violet?
And which special one in the thousand flowers by the river;
The orange tulip or the sweet smelling dusty-miller?

And the vagabond bee it wandered in November,
Past the Daisies and the mountain Lavender.
Whilst the others were dining and drunk with overdoses
Sipping sunflowers and swimming in roses.

But why is he flying and why is he wandering
When others are wake and slumbering?
Till in winter in the last mountain where only butterflies dine
He found the yellow rose he was searching for all this time.