Is the Moon Made of Cheese
Sometimes I'd wish for the moon and sixpence
so I could ask you out to tea.
The moon would shine it's light, benignly,
and there'd be cakes for my mum and me.
And there we'd sit, just the two of us,
you, giving my hand a gentle squeeze,
just like old times, in better days,
you and I just shooting the breeze.
And asking those all important questions,
like why the rain and why the sky,
and, is the moon really made of cheese,
and wouldn't it be fun if pigs could fly?
Then, like a moonbeam, you'd be gone,
transient, unworldly, lost from view,
until the next time I'd have the moon on a string,
sixpence in my pocket, and me and you.
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