Good Nature, I’m sorry for your loss
Give ear unto my words
And if you find it melancholy short
Good Moths of every sort
Good birds of every kind
Hear the name of her who killed
Kinta, your dear beloved moth.
Before her name revealed to hate
Her heart I’m sure was an icy cake.
No remorse, none I saw
Not even a rueful awe.
Poor Kinta flew into a plaster-grey church
To pray and pry the saint’s good deed
To carry back the incense for thee
To fill your houses with smiling May.
This Errand was poor Kinta’s Last
Jancis* unseen suddenly clapped her hands
Kinta flew coldly down
Jancis could not even lend a frown.
“Alas! A creature of the worst Kind
Jancis must know our grievous loss.
Wrapped forever in his quiet grave
“Poor Kinta is gone, oh, what difference it is to us.”
*Jancis is a very lovley kind girl - this was all for the sake of the poem.