The moon came to the old photographer one night,

with a sweet offer.

“The sun has been your faithful lover for years,

I will offer my cool soft light to you,

the gift of brilliant light at the end of every month.

What do you say, old boy?,

you can bring your tripod and your big new lenses

and bask in my moonlight,

your faithful dog at your feet,

your settings wheel in hand.

The old photographer laughed,

blew a kiss at the moon,

“sweet thing,” he said, “there can be no deal.

I already sold my soul to the sun,

you know he is a jealous lover, a tough negotiator,

he has a corporate deal with the devil,

I get photographer’s light, twice a day, 100 times a year –”

Oh, said the moon, poor old photographer, better you

traded for wine,

“what did you give him? I see it has snowed for 40 days.”

“Why, my best lens,” the old photographer said,

“I traded my best lens. I never thought to ask

about the other days…”

The moon laughed his chilly and foreboding laugh,

it sent shivers up the old photographer’s spine.

“I hope you won’t hate the silly old photographer for that,”

he called for his dog, and yelled again over his shoulder, up at the sky,

“I hope you won’t sue this silly old photographer

for

that.”