We’re planet sorts, I’m sure,
All molten cores and dynamism
Encased in stony skins
And coldness, blackness, bareness
To describe the in-between.
Astronomy’s a safer job
Than spacewalking, by far.
It doesn’t make your tongue freeze over,
Or your eyes pop out your head
When you go and mess it up.
But who wants to be stuck behind
Some old chipped-brass telescope
When there’s alien crags to scale,
Seas of rock and ice to sail
Warm surfaces to touch.
Image credit: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:2001-Sunrise.png