I hated the king of the moon
his hand so good with the universe
it would ring time from my eyes
leaving only the leather beat
of a belt in a Bronx room
all the while the Three Stooges
melting on the TV to Tchaikovsky

Chorus
And I don’t worry about the moon
and I don’t trouble about the sun
and I don’t cry about the sky no more

And there I am there you are
stellar gangster orphan of Blue Beard
with dark glasses
begging for myself on the corner
of me and every mother’s son
rigged to bet against
my best bluegrass colt

And now in the Hebrew Home for the Aged
there on the absorbent seat
sits the ruler of the universe
hands stilled
lights dimmed down to boyish fear
small ragged grin
all the while Dan Rather
reporting the terrors of the day