Butterfly Beautiful

In the selfish safety of his cocoon,
He lived thinking he was butterfly beautiful,
And oft he shied away from danger,
Believing himself to be dutiful,

And when the hungered hordes burned,
Under the unjust fires of lust and hate,
And the City streets were churned,
In rivers of blood so full in spate,

He turned himself around,
And unwound the holy cloth,
When he spread his wings and took to flight,
He was just a murderous moth.