There is, apparently a legend that predicts
That, sometime soon, the lunatics,
Released from wasp-paper grey cells
Will endeavour to devour the orange-moon,
Swallow it whole, tear its
Changing face to tiny shreds,
Catch its essence with this century’s
Version of pail-of-water technology.
Their inner-voices are telling them
To be prepared to fail, to be ready
To bite the skies with safe-blunt teeth
And return quietly to tedious moderation.
Never fear, if they fail to appear,
There will be another delivery,
Another song, another legend, soon.