It’s the thing that makes us croon,
cackling as though driven mad
under the quicksilver moon.

Written in ancient text and rune
in the stories I heard as a lad.
It’s the thing that makes us croon.

Hidden in both dance and tune,
often making the weary glad
under the quicksilver moon.

The saving grace of the buffoon
and tool of every wretched cad.
It’s the thing that makes us croon.

Often ending far too soon
crushing the hearts of the sad
under the quicksilver moon.

The blessing of all those who swoon
and curse of those who’ve been had.
It’s the thing that makes us croon
under the quicksilver moon.

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