Fly me to the moon and play among the stars, Find there’s no spring on Jupiter and Mars. Let the dead Sinatra from his grave croon, Elon Musk profit on trips to see ‘his’ moon,
There still is hope to build a better world Right here and now where green springs resume Their annual returns, whilst not yet curled To dusty bowls where carbon gases fume.
Ask me to pay to see Musk moon at us, Smooth his cheek as we lick his orifice! In one man’s dream, hope dies amid the fuss, With no re-birth, no metamorphosis.
If we could grasp the value shared in love, There’d be no need to celebrate some star. Find worth in those below not those above, We need justice near not heaven afar.
Forgive the doggerel. Much love goes with the wishful preaching!
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