Monday, October 3, 2011
by A. E. Stallings
The moon is chalky, white & thin;
The moon is bitter as aspirin.
She drinks it down with a glass of gin.
Clear and strong the moonbeams fall
As the proof of alcohol,
And everything they touch, appall.
But there are stars for all her ills--
A scattering of spilled, white pills.
The glass is sweating a it chills.