The Morning Sun, that intrepid Ball of Fire
Is the “Lighthouse “ of Energy, not the funeral  pyre,
You can ride a horse or two,  if you will, but
Only one at a time, else, you will fall, dear Sire.

Moonlighting might make the two ends meet
But, when you clasp a hand that’s not a moonlight greet,
The occasional bit of moonlighting might not be bad
Too much and you might have to beg on the street.

All rivers strive for the seas, some for oceans too
Some get there, some don’t, Why so, they have no clue,
Does anyone know why I’m the frog that continually croaks
And, the voice of that Nightingale, dear Reader, resides in you.

There’s tonnes of garbage and nonsense around
Wherever you go those dustbins are found
But, they’re all in our heads, the fountain of sense
In there lies the wise Penny and the foolish Pound.

If wishes were horses we’d simply all ride
With our companion by our side,
But wishes aren’t horses, we know that well
So dreams are dreams, and, within us must reside.