Dear butterfly, do not be silly.
It's true you're little bizzare, and I
Have been taught to not touch
You; be careful, to not groom
You bare hand, or by a gauntlet.
But you see, you're being obtuse
Not answering me back as I kneeled
My specie in front of you.
They told me again - "It's dangerous,"
So is it why you fashion ghosts
And wax yourself a little coffin
... breathing lustfully all the while?
I tried to diagram you along these
Cattles that meditates - But you're not
Of the same innocence and lore: You're not
Disciplined and Dominated by us.
You're partially dead, like the lame trees;
Your dingy feathers, whose crayons are still
In actuation, they dream simple like a baby.
Oh, I can tear it all down and kill you.
But I, a God, give you a chance to speak -
I've dissected my tongue and unbarred
My mouth - so you can claim your words, acerbic
And exact, producing the superb effect.
When I leave this place, if you're still sound,
Meet me again near this metropolis' stalk.
And we'll come to stalemate each other
And the onlookers might then sense our spunk.
