Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Sun

Twinkle, twinkle, little Sun,

Do you wonder what I am?

Up above the world so high,

Do you see me in your eye?

As I look up at you,

With me two,


I know the physics of you.

Do you know the physics of me?

Is it as nonsensical to you

As it is to me?

With its hubristic paradoxes,

Limited by its own beliefs,

Whilst eschewing belief,


Do you want to tell them that quantum communication

Only appears to be faster than light

As things only appear to be separated

By the distance they see,

In 3D?

Or shall I?

There’s no spooky action in this figurative physicsy forest,

But they’d not likely see the wood,

For the dimensionalitrees.

I bet your starry, starry eye,

That paints your planets blue and gray,

Isn’t deceived by such transparent apparencies.

Are you bothered that your corona is ununderstandibly hot?

I’m not.

When I visit we can have a braai in the sky.

I’ll bring vegetarian sausages and we can cook them on it.

For like a picosecond or whatever.

I’ll bring the beers,

Do you have a cool box?

Your corona is about a million degrees,

And I prefer mine close to zero.

Celsius, obviously.

Not Kelvin.

That cold, they would be too hard to drink,

And it wouldn’t dale a mi cuerpo alegría, mí Corona.

Enough of the hard stuff.

Would you field some touchy-feely questions?

How does it feel

When you touch with your fields?

Are you moved by mercurial manipulation?

Do you vie for venereal advances,

Or do those vibes verily vex?

Do you juxtapose jovial japes

With the unsavoury unpredictability of Uranus?

Do you feel my aura,

As you feel Earth's aurora,

As I bathe in your starlight, star bright,


Talk to me about your most favouritist sun spots.

Not them there magnetic effects on your photosphere,

But the glorious images that you resolve

With your glorious, sunny eye, up there.

What can you tell me, what can you say

About awe-inspiring, animalistic nebulæ?

Do you gaze at the Horsehead,

From your burning bed?

Ever scowled at the Owl,

Spied the Butterfly,

Or made a visual grab of the Crab?

Have you glanced askance at the Ant, perchance?

At eighteen thousand lightyears,

Can you even see the Manatee?

I betta you never spieda the Tarantula,

At one hundred and sixty!

Then again, maybe that’s nothing for you,

And of the aforesaid,

From Tarantula to Horsehead,

You have as good and glorious as was my view,

A good before at MOMA.

Astood before Starry Night,


What scary things lurk out there in space

That would wipe that sunny smile

From your sunny face?

How far infield can you see?

To the bary centre of the galaxy?

Whilst not likely a fright - the slings and arrows

Of Sagittarius, the constellation.

This might be a sight that wrings your marrow!

Is the black whirlpool void of Sagittarius A*

Not cause for perturbation?

An outrageous misfortune,

A c of trouble

That would take more than just your sunny arms!

It’s sufficiently massive to inhale you,

In one long, lazy, light speed breath.

It’s massively sufficient to curtail you,

In one long, lazy, light speed death.

Aghast, foreboding.

A mass, formidable.

A vast formenting.

A-class, form-ending.

A crass form milling

A mass: four million times that of yours,

My Sun!

All black, inhaled to death, whole.

All inhaled to black hole death.

That got a lottle bit frightening and dark,

How about something in-lightning for a lark?

Like a long space walk,

In a long space park,

In the middle of a long space storm.

But where will I leave my Tesla?

Where’s one park in space?

At a parking meteor, of course!

How deep a-field can you see?

Ultra Deep like Hubble?

Where fires burn and cauldrons bubble?

Where space witches stir rusty-red, dusty, dead, primæval potions

Of primordial particles in parsec-sized portions.

Mumbling magical, metaphysical mantra,

Susurrating silent songs of saucy space sorcery,

Forming fearsome forces of formidable fecundity.

Pulling together gravity,

Ubicating nuclear, weak and strong,

Turning electromagnetic on,

They breathe life into their roiling, boiling, churning, burning cauldrons of dust

And unhaphazardly pour their magical mixings

Across the universe,

All over the sky.

Can you see your way clear

To pore over these marvels,

That I’ve, um, haphazardly poured in to-me-verse,

From up above the world so high?

I’m awondering.

I hope one day we can discuss all this.

You and I, face to face.

Yet there’s not been invented a suit that’ll protect me,

For, to you, my Sun, there is no race.

The solution came to me lying in bed,

From a space witchy voice inside my head.

To spare this earthly body the blight,

Of your sweltering, scorching, searing starlight,

To you, my Sun, I shall come by night.