The poem
She has one good bumblebee which she leads about town on a leash of clover. It's as big as a Saint Bernard but also extremely fragile. People want to pet its long, shaggy coat. These would be mostly whirling dervishes out shopping for accessories. When Lily winks they understand everything, right down to the particle of a butterfly's wing lodged in her last good eye, so the situation is avoided, the potential for a cataclysm is narrowly averted, and the bumblebee lugs its little bundle of shaved nerves forward, on a mission from some sick, young godhead.