I chased that darling butterfly
one summer afternoon,
its purple vestments gossamer,
just hatched from its cocoon.
It flitted past the window
just beyond the Birches tall,
a jewel for my collection
to mount upon the wall.
The other pretty butterflies
were none as nice as that.
She was my perfect heroine,
she was my Penny Black.
The hours I spent to get her,
tempting her with nectar,
trying to detect her.
She filled me with such great desire
I crept up quietly
then caught her with an outstretched hand
and took her home with me.
And now she sits upon the wall,
she’s dusty, grey and old.
I’ll take her to an auctioneer
and watch her being sold.
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