Welcome to Zimmer-zine
The e-zine for all those who are not dead yet!
The sun must be tucked in by twilight|
to be up with the lark, while the moon
can retire any time around midnight
and resurface the next afternoon.
The brazen sun is in the west|
painting magic with her brush.
And as she bows she bares her breast.
The modest moon can only blush.
No more shall the sun|
rob the moon of success;
he's already begun
to help Venus undress.
The moon is like a gypsy|
who drinks beneath the stars;
he's soon a wee bit tipsy
and thinks he lives on Mars.
In the moon's candid light|
ragged clouds leap to fame,
then drown in the night
like moths in a flame.
Distress is often left unspoken;|
likewise when the moon goes down.
His tongue is tied, his spirit broken,
blue the head that wore a crown.
As dew compels the hardy lawn|
to shelter each ellipse,
so music tells the tardy dawn
to shatter night's eclipse.