As i sit here rotten,
I look at a happy, playful couple of pretty butterflies,
Oh pitiful me! Hiddenly crying, holding onto my winter mitten,
It is a simple piece of fabric to one; but now I know how time flies,

Both of us look back upon thee,
A manner of glee which used to be,
A glee of a pact filled with lies.

Oh alas, me! Look. It is just a dirty pair of moths; a burden to fly.