At night I saw a yellow moon
It looked a lot like butter.
Its smile was like an aeroplane
I heard it start to mutter:
“Doozle grimple grog mabop
Spizznit twimble fwee.
Poox-a-flimbat sozzle bot.
Zop da-kumquat blee.”
“Excuse me, yellow moon,” I said.
“I didn’t get the gist.
I heard you mention ‘kumquat’
But the rest of it I missed.”
“Grizzle doom-rock neeple-bap.
Bicnick poffle hoo.
Moog gorilla weezle gauze.
Rimbim moz-man koo.”
“Doom-rock? Poffle? Moog?”
I said. “You’re talking like a loony.
I guess you don’t know English, huh?
You must be speaking Moony.”
I turned to go, because I thought
I’d never understand.
We lived in different worlds;
we were like hummingbirds to sand.
But as I turned to leave
The moon again began to speak
Its aeroplane smile made dimples
In its butter-yellow cheeks.
“Shh,” it whispered. “Pretty boy.
I know your secret charms.
You’re not insane. And someday soon
I’ll hold you in my arms.”
“Excuse me, you’ll do what?”
I said
But then a great gray cloud
Obscured the moon’s celestial face
A sort of misty shroud.
Who are you, moon?
Why tell me
That you know my secret charms?
Why promise that you’ll hold me
When you don't have any arms?
I went back to my chilly house
And asked my grandma why
I’d heard such strange, uncanny things
From something in the sky.
“The moon knows only nonsense.”
Granny said. “Don’t pay it heed.
But ain’t it true that sometimes
Nonsense’s just the thing we need?
It’s all mysteryus, sonny boy.
Don’t understand? Don’t try.
C’mere, let granny tuck you in
And sing a lullaby.”
Although I’m not a child, I let
My granny tuck me in
Her breath made fog-clouds in the cold
And smelled like flour and gin.
“Doozle grimple grog,” she sang
Spizznit twimble fwee.”
I fell asleep at “sozzle bot.”
Began to dream at “blee.”
