WELL DESERVED

Whatever we live for

Be it pun or euphemism

Perhaps a mere metaphor

No matter one's fetishism 

Nothing is worth dying for

The hay we make even on holiday 

And the hive we craft per se 

Will definitely pay off someday 

Maybe not immediately

But most definitely

So when the season comes

Faithful enough to arouse few smiles

Just as our sun dawns 

To light our path over miles 

That we too can walk on tiles

We pose again to gaze 

Not at our land full of maize

Nor the properties we've made

But to render praise 

For that free trade;

Of breath without buying oxygen

And bread albeit, from heaven.