The Picnic

The bees are buzzing brightly,
I pass trees and touch their trunks,
Young girls are giggling gaily,
As their brothers rough and romp.
The Nannys knit their napkins,
The Sun does show his shine,
The world is warbling with goodwill,
While the sparrows stir their stumps.
This picnic perfumes the pondside,
With the ghost of good old grapes,
And fried chicken is found at it's finest,
In a basket with blueberry buns.
This poem may not appeal to your appetite,
For it's true that trusty ryhmers trembled,
But alliteration asuages the agony,
And perhaps some form of reason's assembled.