You say I'm a simple sort of insect.
Well, I suppose that that's all right.
I have simple wings and simple dreams,
And I only dream of flight.

You have those mosaics scribed on paper,
Razor-thin but as fragile as the air.
You dreamt you were an artist and
Inspired to put them there.

You say I'm a stupid kind of bug.
A lamp could distract me for hours.
Well, I'm awed by mundane miracles,
And I dream of mundane powers.

You have your migrations,
Streams of color flocking in the sky.
You dreamt you were a rainbow crossing
Through a dreamer's eye.

You say I'm just a moth,
Aspiring to nothing great.
I've only a few short days to live;
I've resigned my life to fate.

Well, I may never become a butterfly;
I don't pretend I can,
But at least I don't flutter away my time
Dreaming I'm a man.