The butterfly may not be so sure,
She's nascent, blue and shyly pure,
I hang on her limp wings;
She carries me away.
They hang on to me
And pull her down.
Pull me down.
Let he go, they tell me.
Slowly, creepily they reach my knee
Up my shoulders and
And on my cheek.
I let go of her,
She let go of me.
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