They tried so hard to make her see
That the moon was just a rock.
They tried so hard to kill her dreams
And suppress all her thoughts.

She said the moon was a ball of yarn
The Night Fairy used, to stitch each star,
In the blanket that she’d knit till dawn
For every living thing near and far.

She said the moon was made of cheddar,
And an old woman lived on it
With an old mouse and an old heifer.
They made the moon grow small and big.

She said the moon was a bowl of rice pudding,
And if you wished upon it before sleeping,
The Night Fairy would tiptoe into the kitchen
And leave for you, a bowl, with a big serving.

“But that’s not true,” they all exclaimed.
“The Moon’s just a rock floating in space!”
Her voice drowned in all their claims,
And she agreed with all they had to state.

The wanderer was witness to all of this,
And he scribbled in his manuscript.
“Mediocrity is the biggest enemy of genius,
And the Moon’s just a rock because of it.”