Damn all these moon people Making such a clamour Think they are all superb and all So full with that glamour
Damn these Godforsaken bastards Can't quiet sometimes sit If they blast there speakers once more Then I tell you that would be it
We earthlings try to sleep at night When they are wide awake Why did somebody had to put them there Why such a grave mistake
They bang their pans and blow their horns All the dark night long Keep singing in their cold harsh voices Their stupid sporadic songs
I am so done with the noise every night Think I'll file a complaint Go to the post office and send it there To the white lady quaint
She resides on the moon my mother has told And spins her spinning wheel Hair and skin and threads all white Will make a fairer deal
P.S: In Pakistan our parents/ grandparents told us a story of the woman on the moon. There lives a very old woman on the moon, alone. She makes yarn on her spinning wheel. It always made me uneasy, for she is all alone on the moon, no one with her. spinning and spinning for eternity.
different versions of this story are present i guess, in different places so i tried to mix that with some silliness of my own. hehe