The rising moon said to the setting sun:

“You must trim your brilliant bangs,

their flaring length dims my ivory face

and keeps the world watching you,

for my soft-lit lamp can’t keep up the pace.”

But the sun, (who is you, sweet Jennifer!),

laughed, and let loose her shining hair,

“Silly moon! Were I to carelessly cut

my fiery-scarlet locks,

weaved quilt-like ’round the world and ‘neath doors long shut,

your own ivory-hued light,

though comforting ’tis true, would fade to black,

for it is I who lends the lamp to you!

So as night rolls over the oceans-blue

and sips up the cities sprawled,

be not jealous nor feel too much ignored,

but remember my bright rays

will, like a flute well played, fade (still adored!)

and leave an ever-haunting chord

that will echo from your dusty face

and return back to this earthy place,

so that those who hear the reverberations

will shower you with un-earned praise:

for though you are loved when I have slipped to bed,

it is I who make you great

with my long-stretched brilliant bangs!”