We're planet sorts, I'm sure, All molten cores and dynamismEncased in stony skinsAnd coldness, blackness, barenessTo describe the in-between. Astronomy's a safer jobThan spacewalking, by far.It doesn't make your tongue freeze over,Or your eyes pop out your headWhen you go and mess it up. But who wants to be stuck behindSome old chipped-brass telescopeWhen there's…