The moon walked by, its pace was wrong,
coloured with a sandel blade.
An eye screamed out, the time has gone,
disappointment rage.

The calmness galloped, strained by the sheen
of satin 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.