The Pretty Butterfly

A pretty butterfly
Soaring through the sky.
Looks down below,
Here a bellow.
There a belch.
Voices mellow.
Aroma and stench.

Who is it I hear cry?
The butterfly desires perfection.
Abdomen uneven, wings crudely tied.
What irony!!

The butterfly waves,
To me.
She craves
For nothing but ideal.
And I rave,
With rage.
For it is not that I am perfect.
Less do I wish to be.
And seeing that I'm approved,
Neither is she.

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The Happy Wanderer

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