The rocket she sat on like a radiant throne
Rose toward the moon: The peak was ruddy gold
Peach the sails, and so perfumed that
Traders were love-sick with them; the fins were silver,
Which to the tune of Steembirds kept stoked, and made
The air which she sliced slip faster,
As amorous of their songs...
When moon? at the tip of the ship
by Happy Money Man
