The Queen of Hearts decided to have everybody over.
The King of Spades said it would be a great deal of work. He said this from a chair.
The first card went to the birthday people, because they are always ready.
They arrived that afternoon. They had brought the cake with them.
The second card went to the musicians.
They said they would come for one song. They stayed for forty.
The third card went to the lamp-lighters, who arrive at dusk
and make the whole house look like it has been waiting for you.
The fourth went to the toasters, who cannot pass a table without raising something.
“To the Queen,” they said. “To the door,” said the King, hopefully.
The fifth went to the sweethearts, who came two by two
and spent the evening looking at each other instead of the food.
By now the invitations had run out and the guests had not.
They arrived anyway, in heart-coloured coats, and squeezed up.
And outside, in the dark, was the one who had not been asked.
Jinx. Watching. Not blinking. Everybody knew whose fault this was. (It was the King's. He had run out of stamps.)
It was the bee who went out to fetch her.
Bees are not frightened of anything, having so much to do.
The last guest came slowest, on a stick, and was seated first.
That is the rule at the Queen's house, and always has been.
So they raised their glasses to the whole crooked lot of them.
Even Jinx. Especially Jinx.