You can’t put a butterfly in a jar. If the effort’s too high no matter who you are. You can’t catch the moon or the sun or the stars. It doesn’t matter who you are. Iced honey. Now me I’ve tried a million tricks. To make life cold and make it stick. Not running heat that flames then out. But the proud piece of ice that always floats. Iced honey. If I can’t trap a butterfly or a bee. If I can’t keep my heart where I want it to be. If no matter how much soul and heart. I put to the wood. If a flaming heart is not that good. Iced honey. If you can’t put a butterfly in a jar. If violence mars your final hour. If you make others feel like jam. Poured on a piece of charbroiled lamb. If it’s all mixed up and you cannot shout. And your oxygen starts to run out. If your final gasp has the recipe wrong. And instead of hello you say so long. If your energy starts to leak out. And people wonder what you’re all about. A heartbreaker with an unattached heart. The story of love gives them all a start. And me I’ve always been this way. Not by choice just this way. I can’t put my honey pot in a jar. Or a heart or a fist of some young boy. If you can’t put a butterfly in a jar. No wonder no need to wonder where you are. It might seem like hell the River Styx. Your affection never sticks. No matter what you say no matter what you do. A butterfly heart flies right past you. There’s nothing to say nothing to do. See if the ice will melt for you. Iced honey