A moth was with us on our pilgrimage
Who on his head wore feathery plumage.
A body stout and hairy as a beast,
His nose so long that it did range at least
Nine inches by the light of blessed day.
He thrust it into flowers 'long our way.

Old books he loved as well: he did devour
Whole volumes page by page and hour by hour.
Manuscripts he ransacked - folio, tome.
He wrote a tragedy of ancient Roam
And lived to see it played upon the stage.
A story of the moon which did presage
Our new science fiction did he pen as well...
And so much more there is that I can tell
About this lettered moth. His poetry
Was gay and vivid as a cherry tree.

But sad though it be to report, my friends,
Our moth burned his candle at both ends.
The fire of learning mesmerized him so -
E.A. Po, J.J. Rooso, D. Didero -
That ever closer to the flame he flew.
He knew at last that he must say adieu
To vain seductive literary life.
There comes a time when moth must seek a wife!
Then would he fall headlong all aswoon
At some angel's six feet - for a cocoon,
He swore, he would trade in all his prized books.
(So much are pheromones such lusty hooks.)
His hunger for to mate gave him no peace.
And then to his horror... he loved his niece!
How to suppress this passion, tame this beast,
Forget her face? Should he become a priest?
No! He took to fighting - brawling in street.
Nose far up front he would never retreat
But beat back every foe, ten at a time.
Strange, but as he dueled he uttered rhyme:
"MARK HOW MY POINT FLOATS, LIGHT AS THE FOAM...
THEN, AS I END THE REFRAIN, THRUST HOME!"

Many enemies he made. They all swore
He was godless. The Grand Inquisitor
Tried many times to burn him at the wax,
Or at very least to torture him on racks,
But always he escaped. His mind was free.
He lived to join our band. What bug was he?
With nose and plume this egomaniac
This moth, was Sir Ano de Bugattack!