Some time ago,
while on my run
I came to the old weir.
And, as I passed
a butterfly
flew up to greet me here.
She went around in circles then
and looked me over well,
I thought perhaps she just liked men,
that's when I almost fell.
I'd kept my eyes on her too much
and didn't see the rock of ages.
And so my bare foot's painful touch
now caused the mother of all rages.
But she stayed with me for a mile,
then daintily said her goodbye.
And I enjoyed her all the while:
She was a pretty butterfly.
One hundred days I met her daily,
each morning she seemed more delicious.
She'd always look a bit capricious
but fluttered happily and gaily.
One day she didn't keep our date,
at first I didn't worry.
Quite simply she just could be late
or p'haps had met a lorry.
I never found out what occurred
and still am sadly bent.
I wonder whether you had heard
what happened to my friend.