The moon says “Rawr!”
To a sleeping hemisphere
Drugged on scientific prescriptions in places
And cheaper, Columbian narcotics in others.
Space men can’t hear, of course
Because sound doesn’t travel in space
And the moon’s reddened face
Seems gray and ashen
Busy people in skyscrapers,
Not really tall enough to knick the sky’s knees
But big enough to be above the little lights
Ignore the Moon and calculate its worth
The government, filled with little men and
Ex Marines consider the moon’s message
A threat, and make plans to out the aggressor
As a homosexual and communist
Hippies and heathens,
Eat vegan feasts under the Hunter’s Moon
An excuse for Bacchanalia
Early this year
In a poorly lit vista, a man chances to hear
The orange moon and its ancient call
Vulpine curiosity perks in half-awake ears
“Rawr, you say?”
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