Colin F. Jones

THE BUTTERFLY

I once new a pretty butterfly,
That flew from rose to rose,
Mainly in the Summer time,
When she was not cold without her clothes.

She stole from each their nectar,
They were willing with her to share,
But I was the fool left empty,
And I suffered great despair.

But that’s how it is with butterflies,
They are never still for long,
For tis not in a single garden,
But in all the gardens where she belongs.