blue flies and butterflies all dance unttill  they sing .
They  dance
around flowers and corpses ,                                                                ­   flies and kings.
One feeds in palaces gorges on beef deer and game ,
the other on corpses from great victories all in the kings name .

Yet the butterflies see all these things ,
the dead and the dying ,
the gold and silver of kings .
And think nothing of either flying and fluttering on beautiful wings .

The man who has nothing left to beg for food in the street ,
the philosopher at a coffee shop who eats and eats and eats .

Yet the butterfly and the blue flies both feast on each one ,
What ever man has left over ,
Is what man has become .

For all his wealth and power ,
his riches and his fame .
His ever constant struggle
to feed his starving children
don’t go hungry in their shame .

And still the blue flies and butterflies feed off what we leave
Behind ,
Oblivious to our struggles ,
Oblivious to our wealth
they wear pin stripe suits ,
and-ball room gowns .
To every ball that’s swinging in town .
Under. blood red skies and battle grounds ,
too feed off all the rotting flesh ,
that man cut down

For As life goes on ,
we bleed ,
and
die .
and so
the insects
begin to dance
and sing ,
And fly .