Harvest moon, have you not made
Within the fanfare of the scythe
One thousand hungry mouths that feed
On stalks of bitterness so lithe
It traipse the hallowed heart of Sunday
With an shivered, bellowed breath
And would not fair young maidens want
Nor men of old so soon to death.
Crouch beneath the noonday suns
Or wallow at your nothing cares
For Father Christmas, Father Time
Come at the Sunday unawares
And soon your sound appointments
With the blissful sun that never sets
Will altogether lapse into the dark,
That darkness that whileonce regrets
What sickness it inflicts on human kind
The rabid, rusty, ricket-ridden rot of us
Which sucks its poison from our marrowed bones
And, end to end, cacophonous
Calls Judgment Day all sinners to adhere
The badgered trial of empty courts and staves
Once singing angels and their corps
The faults of heaven rent with waves
Of effervescent sound so rich and pure!
That on the brink of death disease did cure!
All faith when doubted, then was sure!
And I was hungry, not then, and nevermore!