That man’s a silly fellow in the sky
who only comes to me when he’s drunk.
He can never answer the question why,
or honestly tell just what he’s thunk;
he glares at me so impersonally
that I think he’s either profound or dumb….
His distant far air of formality
contains no music, not even a hum
of disagreement, something I prefer
to stimulate modest conversation
about the universe of conjecture,
which often concludes with drear dejection.
Yet I raise my wee glass to Mister Moon,
hoping that I might see him once more soon.