On the far side of a distant moon,
In an outpost seldom seen,
Lived a family called the Lunar-tics,
With an enterprising scheme.
The Lunar-tics constructed and
Concealed upon a hill
A primitive contraption -- a
Productive earthshine still.
The Lunar-tics were brewing,
In their still on the hill,
A strange bootleg concoction --
A crude galactic swill.
They claimed it was medicinal,
And said ‘twas “for their health“ --
But sold it to the Martians, and
Amassed Red Planet wealth.
The Martians were enjoying
This lunar brew import,
‘Til receiving a statistical
Trade deficit report.
Their government was up in arms
And claimed this was unwise
They promised Martian currency,
For Lunar-tics demise.
The plea went out to Martiandom
And one took up the call.
He aimed his ray gun at the moon
And vaporized them all.
With Sputnik’s lunar orbit,
No trace was ever seen
Of Lunar-tics on lunar soil.
Or their rotgut machine.
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