winter has a gun

‘good evening,’ says the moon
to the faded golden sun
‘have a rest.’
‘oh, i’ll do my best,
but winter has a gun.’

‘a gun you say?’
the moon replies
‘but he may cause some harm.’
the sun she sighs
and closes her eyes
‘you see, he has a farm.’

‘he keeps the poor in dirty pens
and the homeless in a pound.
he takes their fun
and with his gun
he leads them underground.’

the moon begins to tremble
’can we stop him?’ whispers she.
‘that’s not our job,’
says golden sun
as she approaches the darkening sea.

‘but who can help?’
the grey moon cries
‘is there something we can say?’
’to make him come round?’
gold sun peers down
‘tell that to theresa may.’


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