The Butterfly

You're sure you've caught his eye, but he's a butterfly,
And you didn't know he'd kept his cocoon.
He'll come out and he'll dance,
You think he'll take a chance,
Then he'll hibernate for many a long moon.

 

So what is its name and why the game?
For it's a rift - it separates us and them.
Tell me, where did all men learn,
That when you touch love, you burn?
It's not women who are fickle; it is men.

 

So woman, beware - this man's not true;
His apron strings are tied so tight,
There's nothin' you can do,
Oh, there’s nothin’ you can do.

 

When men are very young, a song is sung,
By their mothers, in a voice pure and true.
The first sound they hear, from sweet mother dear,
They live for the love that shines through.

 

Then the bond is broken, harsh words spoken;
He is told that he must become a man.
He'll never quite recover,
From his first lost lover,
But he tries to replace her when he can.

 

So woman, beware - this man's not true;
His apron strings are tied so tight,
There's nothin' you can do,
Oh, there's nothin' you can do.

 

So when you're sure you've caught his eye, but he's a butterfly,
Don't you cry, don't be like me.
Take the ten days bliss,
And with a sweet farewell kiss,
Just toss this fish back in the sea.

 

Always, woman, beware - this man's not true;
His apron strings are tied so tight,
There's nothin' you can do,
Oh, there's nothin' you can do.

 

© Val Sherwood

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