In the last chance saloon, thou didst reach for the moon.
Caught it,
Sat it in an egg-cup.
While  everyone waited to crack up its head.

The moon his name was Edward,
Continued moving forward.
The moon met up with the light of the sun.
The light of the sun was served with a bun.
And a pint of the Bishops favourite tipple.

The yolk of the moon, it was somewhat lumpy.
Having his head smashed in made him so grumpy.
The corner shop sold him some scrumpy.
Left him in a tizzy.
As the pull of the tide left him soggy and dizzy.
He huffed and he puffed and he moved away.
Bringing on time at the eve of  the day.
He never appreciated the gravity of  the situation.
Getting caught by stupid and ladies and girls.
Still the sun shines and so the moon whirls.
(c) Livvi