T'was really not a Monarch, that graced our flower bed,
Even though my pictures sent, in e-mail lables said.
But still a tale to remember hence, my grandson caught them each,
And kept them safe as they transformed, and wriggled from the breach.
To dry their wings, in summer sun, they flap then flutter by,
Not a majestic Monarch, true, but no less a Butter Fly.
