Hornet

I wish with all my heart I could endure
That whining, high pitched sound. And yet alas
I feel it's true, I have no real choice
But to do this creature in, and thus ensure
Never again to hear his awful voice.
The bombilations of the hornet in
A flat, against the window pane increase,
And his size grows in proportion to the din.
And then I know that I must make it cease,
With a squirt of something nasty in a tin.
And now I know he'll bombilate no more,
In any key, by any window glass,
And I'm rather pleased, and skewer him,
To display to other members of his class.