I cry larger than you, I am the man on the moon.
Weight my tear on the scale of the cheese stall. On the surface of this drop you will see
the angels surf sifting the ocean for pearls and debris from my brothers who came.
My people have four lives and six hands, they all understand
When they travelled and deceased to help your land, to build the playground with their six hands
How easy is to play and flourish
How easy is to joy and cherish
Picking up the cherry from tree is easier by the spaceship of the people of the moon.
The dearth was granulous, had an aftertaste of solitude when we came.
The storm of lunar toys was acidic and cancelled the breeding specs of the soil
The females were infecund and left the moots to exfoliate in sunflowers of orange zest.
The mojitos we had since, tasted of acrimonious ballet of gut bacteria, but we were silent because dominated by the brat of the moon.
The brat is my brother I confess. I recuse the way he sits astride on comets and
He perjures 'fide et amore' to Sun and celestial allies, but he's malign, insufferable and little
and he's hostile to shadow of kids, which him belittle with heights of bliss.
The little angels have chocolate in heart as it should be.