Butter Fly

For weeks the butter waited.

For weeks the butter sat.

A glowing golden rectangle,

A little patient pat.

For weeks the butter’s brain ached.

For weeks the butter tried.

The effort made it melt a bit,

A greasy tearful tide.

At last it all got eaten,

Used up in a stew.

That poor deluded butter,

Which never, ever flew.

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