| I find it difficult to
|
| Relax in the summertime
|
| With all the flowers in bloom
|
| I creep across the countryside
|
| With my net and my bait
|
| And a pocketful of bailer twine
|
| I break the promises I made
|
| As I box up all the butterflies
|
| I ruin
|
| Everything
|
| As I sit in a field of grass
|
| In the spring
|
| Listening
|
| To the beat of its little heart
|
| And to its wings
|
| Struggling
|
| For air under an upturned glass
|
| And I put a pin
|
| Through its wings
|
| And I bottle it up
|
| I box it up
|
| And bury it in my heart
|
| Just as I know my friends
|
| I also know my enemies
|
| Are the birds and the bees
|
| And my own little insecurities
|
| I creep around in the dark
|
| And I tear up all the dandelions
|
| And I break my own heart
|
| As I box up all the butterflies
|
| Tirelessly
|
| Following
|
| Its tiny butterfly tracks
|
| Across the field in the spring
|
| With a plastic carrier bag
|
| Full of fish
|
| Hooks, and string
|
| I lay a little matchbox trap
|
| And I put pin
|
| Through its wings
|
| And I bottle it up
|
| I box it up
|
| And bury it in my heart
|
| I folded up its furry wings
|
| And opened up its little heart
|
| It might sound stupid
|
| But something about it made me want to pull it apart
|
| I ruin
|
| Everything
|
| As I sit in a field of grass
|
| In the spring
|
| Listening
|
| To the beat of its little heart
|
| And to its wings
|
| Struggling
|
| For air under an upturned glass
|
| And I put a pin through its wing
|
| And I bottle it up
|
| I box it up
|
| And bury it in my heart |