Butterfly sat on a yellow flower, she did. A beautiful yellow flower, it was. Against the bright blue sky it shown, with nectar sweet as cane. Bee came up behind her, he did. And buzzed around her head, he flew. Tiny voice cried out, she heard. “Oh, please spare a drop for me.”
Butterfly flapped her bright wings, she did. And fluffed her feelers clean, they were. She stared at the bee by her head, he was. (Considering his desperate plea, he hoped.) Soft voice tickled the air, so cruel. “Why spare I,” she said. “This last autumn’s delight?”
Bee buzzed louder and louder, he did. In agitation at having to think, it hurt. Shutting eyes tight to focus, it thought. In thinking it forgot to fly, it fell. Below the yellow flower, it hit. Tiny brain exhausted from thought, it died. Returned to the earth of its birth.
Butterfly leaned over the flower, she did. At the bee on the ground below her, it lay. She thought of shedding a tear, in sorrow. But her time comes tomorrow, she knows. Back to the yellow flower, she turned. Lowering her head to the nectar, she supped. Warmth of sun on her wings, she felt, one last moment of peace.