Said nettle to butterfly, 'welcome back!'
'i remember you when you were black,
bushy and wrinkled, fat and hairy!
hardly a month since last you fed on me!'

'bushy and fat? don't be ridiculous!'
snorted Painted Lady of colouring meticulous,
'but what can one expect of insolence infamous,
just like your hairs, pointy and venomous!'

'don't be so hoity, my young lady',
hummed Urtica dioica, 'I'm not so shady',
'you, on the other hand, have changed your look,
you're like a chameleon or shifty crook!'

'Don't nettle me', said m'lady blushing,
'i'll not be accused of guile or bluffing,
it's you that ought to be of yerself ashamed,
hiding burning-needles in hairs untamed!'

'Each to their own', shrugged the burn-****,
'Don't ask anyone to touch me Harris tweed,
but i'm here for you, to meet your need,
i give you food, I help you breed'.

The butterfly appeared though not to hear,
Engrossed with the nettle's front 'n rear,
Her abdomen bent, spiracles as bow,
She laid her young children, her seed to grow.

'It's not too late, my little young'un,
a little courtesy and manners to learn,
be nice to he who gives you good turn,
'cos it's your eggs i do discern

on underside of my green leaves,
the least you can do is say "how d'you do"',
but butterfly had gone, as succulent beeves
to little brown wren, in beak as he flew.