Yes, the Glory that was Grease! But Virgin lived in barbarian Roam.

This was a land of never-ending insect wars, bug triumphs and defeats. A land of poisonous praying mantis matrons murdering mates. Of lion-ants devouring Crushtwuns force-marched through Coliseum gates. Legions of stout termites defending far frontiers... Seeczars lording it over republican peers... Insects sunk in superstition up to their ears...

The Roamin bee Virgin saw his countrybugs torn in terrible civil strife. He witnessed the final decades of one hundred years of bloody civil wars.

Fierce intestine broils alarm the hive
(For two pretenders oft for empire strive),
The vulgar in divided factions jar,
And murmuring sounds proclaim the civil war.
Inflamed with ire, and trembling with disdain,
Scarce can their limbs their mighty souls contain.
With shouts, the coward's courage they excite,
And martial clangours call them out to fight;
With hoarse alarms the hollow camp rebounds,
That imitate the trumpet's angry sounds:
Then to their common standard they repair;
The nimble horsemen scour the fields of air;
In form of battle drawn, they issue forth,
And every knight is proud to prove his worth.
Prest for their country's honour and their king's,
On their sharp beaks they whet their pointed stings,
And exercise their arms, and tremble with their wings.
Full in the midst the haughty monarchs ride;
The trusty guards come up, and close the side;
With shouts the daring foe to battle is defied.

How many countless insects died - hills and hives destroyed - so that Seeczar or Pompous might rule? Will the swarms of Brutal and Callous (they who assassinated Seeczar) prevail over the armies of Mark Ant Only and Oddoreven, they who succeeded Seeczar? And more blood must be shed to decide which of these two heirs of Seeczar shall become sole ruler of the Roamin Empire.

Thus in the season of unclouded spring,
To war they follow their undaunted king;
Crowd through their gates; and, in the fields of light,
The shocking squadrons meet in mortal fight.
Headlong they fall from high, and wounded wound;
And heaps of slaughtered soldiers bite the ground.
Hard hail-stones lie not thicker on the plain,
Nor shaken oaks such showers of acorns rain.
With gorgeous wings, the marks of sovereign sway,
The two contending princes make their way;