and now, ladies and gentlemen, a bizarre sonnet The moon in all celestial clarity Hangs starkly in the morning's indigo; The sun, new up, and always quick to see, Amazes at so insolent a show. "Thou, Moon!" he calls. "Art thou so much confused To think to stay aloft into the day?" She smiles; her eyes are brazen and amused But silent- there is nothing there to say. The sun grows hot, its fury dims the dawn- The moon sits lightly on the summer breeze- He shouts at her, he bids her to be gone; She laughs and dances down behind the trees. She knows that as the night comes he will chase Past earthly ends for woman's sweet embrace.