Congo and other poems
Vachel Lindsay

IV. THE MOON'S THE NORTH WIND'S COOKY

(What the Little Girl Said)

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,
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And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!