The Wasp is like an electric streetcar: a short train with the engine and the observation car that sizzles like a chemical reaction. And if she touches down, it’s an electrical jolt, a venomous vibration.
The Wasp is an oddity of nature - a creature with a tiny waist, yet it spends all its time in cake-shops.
The Wasp is the musical form of honey: a major note, sharped, insistent, beginning faintly but not easy to release, clinging, bright, with alternating force and frailty.
The Wasp is a good emblem for fruitless warfare, for she leaves her stinger in the victim, and dies in the process.
The Wasp is an airborne cauldron for making jam, hermetically sealed but yielding, the ponderous rear axle careening along in flight.
The Wasp is stupid, for if cut in two, it takes her two days to realize that she’s dead. She keeps on flailing about. Even more than before.