  A REAL Butterfly, I mean, With Orange-Pointed saffron wings, And coat of inky Velveteen— None of your Fashion-Plated Things That dangle from the Apron-strings Of Mrs. Grundy, or you see Loll by the Stage-Door or the Wings, Or sadly flit from Tea to Tea; Not such a Butterfly was he; He lived for Sunshine and the Hour; He did not flit from Tea to Tea, But gayly flew from Flower to Flower. One Day there came a Thunder-Shower; An Open Window he espied; He fluttered in; behold, a Flower! An Azure Rose with petals wide. He did not linger to decide He calmly settled down inside That Rose, and no one said “Beware!” There was no Friend to say “Take care!” How ever, then, could he suppose This Blossom, of such Colour Rare, Was just an Artificial Rose? All might have ended well—who knows?— But just then some one chanced to say: “The very Latest Thing! That Rose In Paris is the Rage To-day.” No Rose of such a Tint outrÉ Was ever seen in Garden Bed; The Butterfly had such a Gay Chromatic Sense, it turned his head. “The Very Latest Thing?” he said; “Long have I sighed for something New! O Roses Yellow, White, and Red, Let others sip; mine shall be Blue!” The Flavour was not Nice, ’tis true (He felt a Pain inside his Waist). “It is not well to overdo,” Said he, “a just-acquired taste.” The Shower passed; he joined in haste His friends. With condescension great, Said he, “I fear your time you waste; He argued early, argued late, Till what was erst a HARMLESS POSE Grew to a Fierce, Inordinate Craving for Artificial Rose. He haunted Garden Parties, Shows, Wherever Ladies Congregate, And in their Bonnets thrust his nose His Craving Fierce to Satiate. At last he chanced—sad to relate!— Into a Caterer’s with his Pose, And there Pneumonia was his Fate, From sitting on an Ice-Cream Rose. O Reader, shun the Harmless Pose! They buried him, with scant lament, Beneath a Common Brier-Rose, And wrote: Here Lies a Decadent. Oliver Herford. |
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