Doggerel to the moon (but the moon is no dog): A poem 

Your blood is waiting, on the boil 

in the night that you light the sleep after toil 

An age is coming to pass, see the roil 

of a carcinogen continue evil man’s spoils 

Lovers think you are a nest, they know not best 

A sacrilege of sacred, a misbegotten heist 

And we think who rules the tide, and the oceans wide? 

Is romanticism romantic? narcissism divides 

In water’s imagery, in the crab’s trajectory 

A new age, than the past, is even more tragedy 

I smell your sin in each night you alight 

Will there be insight if criminals don’t give up the fight? 

All the 359 nights, the moon just might 

take your fears and prove them right 

Should Aquarius have a nauseating pot of water? 

The moon gets the earth; no mother of a daughter!