Read Poems by
The Probe 3
Cast a glance to the comet up high
with a name sounding awkward and dry
(in the stellar marquee
it's marked 'six-seven-P')
and a motion that's hard to descry.
As the comet continues to fly,
caught in gravity none can defy
(yes, it traces ellipses
through solar eclipses),
we ask 'does dark matter comply'.
So, we sent the Rosetta to pry
and I can't help but wondering why
(once in orbit) we spun it
so close to the sun, it
is likely to sizzle and fry…
But before, we may soon verify
that the comet's a custard cream pie
made of green cheddar cheese,
like the moon, if you please
(though that's gospel the savants deny).
When receivers no longer reply
(at the end of their solar supply),
we won't seek to debug 'em,
instead we'll we unplug 'em
and turn off our spy in the sky.
If it's certain Rosetta will die
then, oh lordy, I surely will cry
if we land it like Philae
behind the sun, shyly,
before I can whisper goodbye.