Just beneath this glass

there is a wasp, trapped,
(I've overturned it, you see)
and he's (she's) (it's) circumnavigating
the rim where my mouth was
ten minutes back.  I suppose if
I leave it here, like this, it will die,
inhaling the peaty overtones of
that last single malt on its way out.  If
I let it go, it will surely attack, or at
least menace us with hovering stinging threats.  Enjoy
the nose, wasp.  There are worse ways to go.