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Poem

MOON MORGANS

On a clear night    long about October’s end
When the wind is wailing a dies irae
And your brain    befitting the season    is newly webbed
With la ronde des lutins (the round of the goblins)
Laughing in eerie chorus
Catch!
Swallow hard!
Then look ye up!

The great golden eye will appear slightly misted    and
Flitting much like strange    derby-wearing    cigar chewing
                                                                            circus criers
Are these small    pot-bellied    men with wings
Called by weird mystics    “Moon Morgans”

You will hear them sing a burlesque tune
They hover just above mother earth
Though they appear quite close to the lunar apparition
So far away -  mind’s eye and ear    you know

“Too  ra  loo  ra,  pumpkin pie
Too  ra  loo  ra,  up in the sky
Too  ra  loo  ra,  my oh my
Too  ra  loo  ra,  oh how we fly!”

“This is nonsense!” you will say
But of course!
Moon Morgans are ineffably stupid

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