One of those neat idiosyncratic lyrics, slipping so effortlessly into the memory, that Robert Graves excelled at.
The butterfly, a cabbage-white,
(His honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
Yet has – who knows so well as I? –
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and here by guess
And God and hope and hopelessnes.
Even the aerobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift.