It was a dank and strummy night.
The thirty-eight pluckers were fatigued from the blaze,
Which the drenching, pink mists had put out.
Seventeen lovers lay stunned in the maze
And were lost and were all out of sight.
The strongest prize fighter had misplaced his clout,
The birds of a feather had stopped trying to get out,
The grass was blue due to old Sir Hugh,
And the moon could not even be seen.

No, the moon,
Yes, the moon,
The true, blue, and new moon,
No, the moon could not even be seen.

   On the other side of town, balanced on the end of Jimmy's gold
fork, unpredictably secured or about to fall off, Mary's pudding was
a soggy, irredeemably staining dollop of the horrifically inept
housewifely attempt of the afternoon.

"Jolly," he said.
"A dollar?" she asked,
And the moon could not even be seen.

No, because, you see, the moon was absolutely not seeable,
Not even slightly,
Nor sprightly, nor brightly,
Neither rightly nor lightly,
Not even tightly, nor in any other fine sense:
The moon, simply, could not even be seen.

Swift old Nell, through valley, through dell,
Beyond the deft swell of the church's new bell
(Too slow for ballet and too fast for hell),
Tolled the rapt, fast dodger on the deadeye's plane,
Spoiling all twosomes and threesomes the same.

Unfurled sails pictured rabbits and whales,
With great round bales full of snails and short tails.
A stout, tan dog was found gone from its home,
And a sleek young cat had run off with its bone.

For the moon, for the moon, for the moon, for the moon,
For the moon could not even be seen.

No, the moon,
The gold moon,
Oh yes, the wan moon,

The cold,
And foretold, wold moon,
The formerly bold moon could not even be seen.

The tame and the lame are often the same.
Past fame and spent flame are not worth all the blame,
And the moon was, not for all practical purposes, no, but, in fact,
Entirely and completely—not even in the least bit!—seeable
(Psst! You couldn't see it! Not even a little! Not at all!)

The words that were slurred were the ones that were heard
(Strange for a town or marass).
And the lessons were learned by the ones who could turn
A brief bliss, a smart twist, a whisked tisk, a sweet lass.

One old woman, though, sat in her tub.
"My shirt for a kingdom," said she.
"Never mind the fair hales
And the dark, dreary tales,
I couldn't any happier be.
What care all the figs,
The righted rasters, or pigs,
How fathoms the far highness his three?
All movers, up-down,
Alike master and clown,
End up in the ground,
Yes, you, even you,
And yes, me."

The taut teach naught to what's caught or what's bought.
They climb neither trolley nor tree.
The feathery baboon, the green-paper loon,
The soprano bassoon, and the cowhide balloon,

They cannot, no cannot,
They try not and do not,
They kiss not and love not,
They dare not and care not,
They work not and wake not,
They know not and think not,
And the moon cannot even be seen.

No, the moon,
Oh, the moon,
Yes, the moon,
The young moon,

Nor pall,
Nor tall,
Nor happy at all,

The moon cannot even be seen.

by Robert Hampton Burt
                                                          main page

[I wrote this poem specifically for the purpose of
sharpening my skills in writing verse. One thing that is
enjoyable about writing nonsense verse is that you  
can say things that make sense even though they 
seem not to, while also saying other things which
appear to make sense but which don't.]