The butterflies are confused,
they’re returned to their broken cocoons,
to bring back their original form:
an ugly, wriggling, fuzzy worm.
They sit at the bottom and wriggle around,
other feelings are more pleasant, I have found.
But the fluttering I enjoy so is gone,
as is he from which they were drawn
Their cycle, their way of life, is now reversed.
Because of this girl and her awful curse.
No spice is there to make them grow
into the butterflies I’ve come to love and know.
Instead of feeling that I can fly,
I want to curl up and never reply,
the fluttering has ceased – no more for me,
goodbye, beautiful little butterflies.