Like a crotchety old man, the moon
Looks down on us with disapproval.
We who once worshiped it have come to
Sticking flags in its surface.
Ungrateful slobs, it seems to say,
Who talk of moonlight dances
And moonstruck lovers and moonlit bays,
You still tie down the lunatic
When he wants to go out and play.
He looks down on us with heavily furrowed brow,
Smoking a star-tipped cigar,
And thinks to himself,
If only mankind hadn't made it this far.
Sometimes at night, when I am busy
Penning something at my desk,
I hear him chuckle as if to say to me,
"You alone I bless."
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