The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky by Vachel Lindsay
The Moon's the North Wind's cooky. He bites it, day by day, Until there's but a rim of scraps That crumble all away.
The South Wind is a baker. He kneads clouds in his den, And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!
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