Blame It On the Moon

I lost my mooning contest with the moon. The odds were in my favor: two pallid orbs against one: a sullen sack up there, barely engaged, as the gamblers around me gawked. But when the blood billowed down to my noggin, I swooned, face dunk in the mud. Next day all the grog in Terra below could not stake a rematch between me and that bad bulbous bag of apathy in the night, that orbital ogler flashing its silk surveillance through our innocent panes and unsuspecting livers, exposing our competitive genitalia to alleged shame, a heavenly body, distinguished by the negligence of its ilk.