I bounded into a field of heather,
The butterflies scattered.
They flitted around as light as a feather,
And down like rain they pattered.
One landed on my nose,
Another on my tail.
It prompted me to write this prose,
I hope it doesn't fail.
Then one landed on my head,
And another on my back.
Did they think I was a bed?
Or big pile of cack?
I tried to shake them off,
One of them took offence.
It thought I was Sebastian Romanov,
I needed self-defence.
The butterfly spared no wrath,
It bit and bit like a flea.
At least it wasn't a moth,
Or it would have eaten me.
Why did it like to moider?
Do butterflies dislike a tsar?
I got a sense of schadenfreude,
When it flew off and got hit by a car.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
There must have been lots of butterflies. How beautiful.