Lyrics

Red wings flash in perfect flight,
until the time each will alight.
Quite politely perched on posts
or on the tops of tall marsh grass-
exactly where to land, they know.
Expertly they space just so,
and I have never seen them fight.
Would that we were half as bright.

Graphic moths, wings outspanned,
penciled lines on papery white,
rest on sun-bleached daisies.
Then in pairs, they back up
so their lines align, each to each.
In sensual geometries,
two triangles make a diamond,
four lines, a square-
pulsing then spent, in end-to-end pairs,
they rest in patterns black and bright.

In perfect camouflage they lie,
then separate, each mate from mate.
They seem to sense the proper time
when they should part on errant ways.
They fly apart, each heart from heart,
abandoning this lusty match
to find some other mothy friend
and then begin
again again
their shapely sensual displays.