I was staring at the pompous Sun,
gleaming over water.
Its legs stretched out, one by one,
the desperate sea its fodder.
As I watched, I seemed to sense
a jealous sibling feeling.
Just east of this, the Moon just shone,
loneliness endearing.
"I'm sorry Moon," this I say,
I'm only facing west."
But his face, as I confessed,
I swear lost glow and jest,
I assured him of his beauty,
his loyal and regal air.
not 'sick and pale' with grief, once said,
but utter debonair.
A question's there, in the air,
the one I rose above;
"Then why on earth, little girl,
is the Sun the one you love?"
"That's incorrect, and so unfair,
dear Moon, for heaven's sake.
It's only if I turn my head,
I feel a dreadful ache."
The Moon still shone,
a quivering pool,
giant and yet so sad,
said no more
and looked ashore,
wishing what he had.
No more I looked,
no more I frowned,
enjoying the bright pink thrill.
How can I say,
"Sorry Moon,
we all prefer some frill."