Here's one of my absolute favorites. TW: gaslighting (a form of mental abuse)
i met a moth the other night
who loved to play with fire
he was trying to break into a hundred watt bulb
to fry himself on a wire.
i said to him, sir, if you keep that up
your years will be painfully few,
do you play with fire because you like it
or because it's the conventional thing for moths to do?
he looked at me all starry eyed,
and fluttered his wings as he softly sighed;
'have you ever seen the secret heart of a flame?
how many creatures have ever seen
the secret heart of a flame?
we moths would rather see beauty once
and then just cease to be
then never see any beauty at all
and live an eternity
so we wad up our lives into one little ball
and into the flame we shoot it all!
into the flame we fly ... what a wonderful way to die.'
and before i could stop him, the crazy little blighter
he flew right into the business end of a cigarette lighter
no more little blighter.
well, we would say that moth was a fool, i guess
but there's one thing i cannot deny:
i wish there was something in this world i wanted
as much as he wanted ... to fry.
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.