Moon-Shot

What sort of place is this moon
Somewhere for Hoffman’s Sandman
Who comes to the children who wont sleep
Steeling their eyes away
Casting sand until the bleed out
To feed them to his children from his bag
Crooked beaks at the ready
Ready to peck, peck, peck
Pull and tear

But what then of old Aiken-Drum
Does he not also live in that same moon
We sang a song that said he did
Wearing haggis, beef and bread
A jolly man who played upon a ladle
Or a soldier from before
We can’t be sure
And he also came in the night
But he came to clean up our shite

And now they’ll send Artemis
Perhaps she can tell us what these two do
And then we might wonder what she will then do