Behold the butterfly's beautiful dance,
eccentric, erratic without logic,
hovering here, now there in fields of shrubs,
obtuse angles, their wings soar in a trance,
lift, weight, thrust, drag help defy gravity,
descend, ascend, transcend, flight is magic.
Beguiled by beauty's charm, our Boy Scout clubs
ensnare hundreds to pin and earn a badge,
arrange, with no sense of depravity,
untold numbers under glass to display
the dead, these young men killed with mustard gas,
yes, they lose color, their faces turn grey.
Under orders from above, to amass
no less dead than our own, so on the cadge
fighting is fierce, while war tears asunder
our love for fellow man, we shoot to kill,
limited by rounds of shot made to spill
dead men's souls, butterflies, full of wonder.
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