Strict

So we'll grapple the moon and demand of the stars

that they bow to their queen, render her what is ours,

'till she's drunk off the last pint of light for a toast,

and has left us, her suitor, to face him, our host,

and he'll bellow and rant 'till red faced he falls,

but we'll run, chasing laughter, 'till night covers all.

Then she'll come for her children, she'll come for her kin,

and blind us with mercy as dark as our sin.