The Man On The Moon

The man on the moon stands and strides;
On a forked stick he bears his burden;
It's a wonder he doesn't drop;
For fear he'll fall he shakes and swerves.
When the frost falls he freezes;
The terrible thorns tear him apart.
There's no man alive who knows when he rests,
Or--unless it's a hedge--what clothes he has.

Where do you think this man goes?
He sets one foot in front of the other;
He looks like he's sweating; I see him shake;
He's the slowest man ever born.
He slumps on his stick like a grey friar.
This bent bum is always worried.
It's many days ago since he was here.

That man up there was here
Before he made the moon his home.
Once on a Sunday he was fixing his fence,
Hoping thorns would stop the holes;
He makes bundles with his two-bited ax
So the cows wouldn't eat his corn.
He wasn't lucky in his work:
He cut those briars on a Sabbath
And was therefore sentenced by a harsh judge.

But, hey, come down, get that judge,
Lift your leg, step over the sty.
We'll have the judge over to my house
And settle him down with the finest,
Drink to him dearly with good booze,
And my wily wife'll sit by him.
When the man's drunk as a drowned mouse
We'll have him lighten your load.

But the Man on the Moon doesn't hear me yelling;
I think the low-life's deaf; the devil take him!
No matter how I holler, he won't hurry;
The meely-mouth doesn't have manners.
Hump on, Hubert, you hoarse magpie!
I've had it up to here!
I'm so mad my mouth's locked;
That lout won't come down till day dawns.

| Original Poem |

| Main Page | Table of Contents | Next |