I mull over till I pull my rug over

Fluttering like a jumpy butterfly,
All sprightly and happy and smiling,
The colorful wings dancing in gaiety
Does the butterfly sting like a bee?
I mull over till I pull my rug over.

Finding a peculiar order in randomness,
And lot of meaning in calm solitude
Shedding the joyous cloak solemnly
And haggling for the real one nastily,
I mull over till I pull my rug over.

A sure tang of unsure ripeness
With the heart of juvenile infancy
All of it surreal, yet not fanciful
And finding the rhythm in humdrum,
I mull over till I pull my rug over.