Moon Morgans

MOON MORGANS On a clear night long about October’s end When the wind is wailing a dies irae And your brain befitting the season is newly webbed With la ronde des lutins (the round of the goblins) Laughing in eerie chorus Catch! Swallow hard! Then look ye up! The great golden eye will appear slightly misted and Flitting much like strange derby-wearing cigar chewing circus criers Are these small pot-bellied men with wings Called by weird mystics “Moon Morgans” You will hear them sing a burlesque tune They hover just above mother earth Though they appear quite close to the lunar apparition So far away - mind’s eye and ear you know “Too ra loo ra, pumpkin pie Too ra loo ra, up in the sky Too ra loo ra, my oh my Too ra loo ra, oh how we fly!” “This is nonsense!” you will say But of course! Moon Morgans are ineffably stupid