Earth, my dear, you're rather ill.
Those pesky bugs,
you have them still?
Come on Girl, get a grip.

Your infection has been spreading,
Poor Moon is looking gray!
I even think they've got to me,
Though not as bad, I'd say.

Jupiter's been talking,
These rumors aren't kind!
I swear I didn't tell him,
He heard through the astroid vine.

Sister dear, I love you,
I swear you used to be hot!
Even the Sun took intrest!
Though now, he'd rather not.

Get rid of those pesky buggarts,
You're powerful, you know.
Just **** 'em off and heal yourself.
Just let those vermin go!