Celestial Cheese Wheel

I cherish ancient, sacred lines,
But moons aren’t made of dairy rinds.
No psalm or prophet, if you please,
Proclaims the sky holds greenish cheese.

Through lenses turned to midnight seas,
We map out craters, not camembert wheels.
From Tranquility they brought back stone—
Basalt and dust, not provolone.

It waxes, wanes, and stirs the tide;
That’s gravity, not curds inside.
So save the Gouda for your bread;
The moon is rock, not farmstead spread.

Respect the scrolls of yesteryore,
Yet samples, stars, and math concur:
Though myths may tease and tales may please,
The moon is not a wedge of cheese.