The moon walked by, its pace was wrong,
coloured with a sandal blade.
An eye screamed out, the time has gone,
The calmness galloped, strained by the sheen
of concrete flavoured wine.
What happened then—she said my dream
and cased it for a crime.
The marksman sang, he had contained
a double dose of leaves.
An Irishman then aeroplaned
“I’ve never stewed my keys”.
Relaxed like mauve, a man to see
about a second brick.
Will time return, do clouds have fleas,
an Edinburgh trick.