What? The moon’s beautiful?
Yes, ’tis so beautiful and
how fakely indeed, oh,
so foolish are the minstrel ,
to weave wreathes for thee.
Thou misshapen tenebrous orb;
What are thou so conceited about?
Thy brilliance is not thine own,
thou pilfer the radiance of the sun;
And glow quite unabashed.
Man, impudent thou art
to hail her elegance so sham.
An ugly ulcer with warts when lit up,
A scar so obnoxious is she,
on the face of the bejeweled night sky.
The creator Machiavellian himself;
devised the macrocosm artfully, tinge
of deceit pumped in bodies celestial.
Man sees what nude eyes behold, unable
To distinguish between the superficial and innate.