Bonnie Prince Charlie On The Moon

Thistles sprout in an airless place,

claymores rattle clash without purpose

and gaunt ghosts battle soundlessly

over a place bleaker than a Scottish moor

on Sunday.

First thing he notices is that there's

no grog shops open,

but thankfully no Hanoverian astronauts either.

He disconsolately considers the fact

he's no longer King Over The Water,

but prince of an unspun satellite,

the ultimate exile staring sadly at the Earth.

Lifting his violin, he plays an old

melancholy country air.

but, being without atmosphere,

the tune goes nowhere.