Poem Hunter
( / Novosibirsk, Siberia)


I bounded into a field of heather,
The butterflies scattered.
They flitted around as light as a feather,
And down like rain they pattered.

One landed on my nose,
Another on my tail.
It prompted me to write this prose,
I hope it doesn't fail.

Then one landed on my head,
And another on my back.
Did they think I was a bed?
Or big pile of cack?

I tried to shake them off,
One of them took offence.
It thought I was Sebastian Romanov,
I needed self-defence.

The butterfly spared no wrath,
It bit and bit like a flea.
At least it wasn't a moth,
Or it would have eaten me.

Why did it like to moider?
Do butterflies dislike a tsar?
I got a sense of schadenfreude,
When it flew off and got hit by a car.

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Comments (1)

There must have been lots of butterflies. How beautiful.