Moon landings changed me
My face now a sight for sore minds
As they point their microscopes
Under my yawning gumtray.
Oh, how I wish they had not faked
The landings there upon my chin
Upon its stage.
I sometimes put some bacon in
Saliva leaks
Upon that sacred skin
The guilt steams up
From holes behind my eyes.
I wish sometimes I were the moon
I could escape to my own room
The crushing cold the moon hangs in
I wish that I were in the bin.
Alas
The bin is full of fish.
Oh well.
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