Yay, it's the manic death-to-butterflies poem that's just a little more then twisted. Yes, altogether now, can we say that I have issues? Hey, but it isn't my fault that butterflies are spawns of Satan. Why am I quite sure this is true? First of all they have the same properties as chocolate: they're pretty/yummy yet evil/bad-for-you. Second, they happened to get on my bad side during a bike ride in the summer of 2002, the evil scheming bugs that they are. Anyway, you know the drill: read and review please!

Why look at that thing fluttering by,
Thinking that just maybe it can reach the sky.
You know, I think I'll kill the petty dream,
Of this floating thing the shade of cream.

My, it's so delicate in my tight grip,
Maybe it is just afraid that I'll make it rip.
Now, let's dampen its spirits just a small bit,
The stupid thing has all but asked for it.

Ooo, look, it's crushed in my fingers now.
Minuscule powder black and white, oh wow.
And I want to giggle maniacally at the sight,
This butterfly can no longer take flight.