The Trouble with Tycho

by Louis Bertrand Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved


The trouble with Tycho

Is that it’s very dry

The moon is a harsh mistress

Unless you know how to handle her

A city of darkness

A city of glass

A city of bones, a city of masks

Bones of crystal, masks of glass

But at least I am willing

To put my face where my mouth is

And for some reason, in some way

Somehow,

I am still morphing into a Frenchman

It’s not so bad being a Frenchman

But I would sure as hell like to know why.