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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.