Pound... mix... pound...
The little moon lop is making medicine.
Pound... mix... pound...
The little moon lop wonders...
The little moon lop questions the mortal morality.
Making medicine for the earthlings out of pity.
With a pestle and mortar in paw,
The little moon lop continues to make medicine.
Pound... mix... pound...
As the little moon lop makes medicine with a pestle and mortar,
The moon wanes to the end of the hours.
The little moon lop is now able to fall asleep
While the mundane reaps the souls they sow.
Silence... snore... silence...
The little moon lop is sleeping.
Silence... snore... silience...
The little moon lop wonders...
Sleeping through the moonless nights in its little crater.
If they will stop illuminating the trees it sees down below.
The little moon lop restlessly sleeps and ever so deeply.
As the earth slowly turns into a disco ball full of sorrows.
Pound... mix... pound...
Going back to work with a pestle and mortar.
Next, to the little moon lop is an endless supply of herbs and spices.
Hustling harder to keep up.
Not for illness or sickness but the hopeless and saddened.
Pound... mix... pound...
How long can the moon last for the earth?
How long will he continue making medicine?
The little moon lop wonders and continues...
Throughout the night worths of hardship every twelve moons.
