In my mouth the moon a bitter taste has left

And my heart is of hope bereft:

For once it was your whimsical freakish palace,

But you have left because you have got a callus!

Let our biased moon fume and fret,

Maybe she does it on purpose for effect,

So let her think you are the person elect

For the tiffs and tickles and bets...

Suppose our moon bewails the nature betray;

Suppose she exudes the saddest trail;

Oh let her forget: once she was our coziest nest,

Let her erupt now misty vests.