Poetry

The Moon's the North wind's Cooky (what the little girl said)
Vachel Lindsay

The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there's but a rim of scraps,
That crumble all away.

The South Wind is a baker.
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that ... greedy North ... Wind .. eats ... again!