#old moth

Inktober Day 8: Old moth

See the old moth in the tailor-made suit, Sipping champagne from a fine crystal flute. Antennae are groomed, all the guests have been roomed, And he sits in an armchair outside in Beirut.

The evening is fine and the air smells of spring, He breathes it all in while adjusting a wing. The streetlamps come on, the curtains are drawn, And softly, so softly, the moth starts to sing.

He sings of his youth as a young larva worm, When over the leaves he would scuttle and squirm. Roaming and chewing, good green food pursuing, Existence was careless, his abdomen firm.

When he grew older he started to sew, Something his mother had taught him, you know, His passion was pants, his best customers ants, He made an absolute mint when it started to snow.

But he felt that he hadn’t been born to make clothes, Packing a suitcase, he moved to Byblos, Where, under the moon, he made a cocoon, And spent the rest of the year in sweet deep repose.

When spring arrived and the almond tree flowered, He spread out new wings and under Sol showered, His energy strong, it was not very long Before he was flitting about, quite empowered.

The moth sings, now, of those glorious days, When, as a youth, things would always amaze, Biting a knuckle, he swallows a chuckle: Many foolhardy friends flew too close to the blaze.

As the years passed, his hair thickened, turned white, He stopped going out, but that was alright, He designed this hotel – it’s been going quite well, And travellers’ stories are a constant delight.

He calls to his butler, a hard-working bee, Who helps him inside due to arthritic knee, They share one last drink, the dawn rises pink, And the old moth retires to sleep until three.