When I walk in the park,
I hear the bees whispering their secrets in my ears.
They tell me all of the juicy gossip from the winds that blow their way.
They are telling me about your beauty,
They talk about your green eyes that stand out in the murky fogs of San Francisco,
They tell takes of the wars scars you wear on your arms with pride.
Sure these Bess were telling me these stories until I meet you.