When Abe Lincoln got popped, Walt Whitman was there to lead the mourning. Today, in this time of planet Pluto’s own trial, someone had to step forward to do the job...
Oh Pluto, My Pluto
Oh Pluto, my Pluto, your old status they’ve revised.
You’ve lost your planetary place, from the big nine been excised.
You'll be renamed a comet, or maybe classed an asteroid
‘Cause in terms of mass you’re challenged, of the needed bulk devoid.
The experts have stopped wrangling,
Have ceased to disagree;
They’ve stripped you of your glory,
Redefined you by decree.
Oh Pluto, my Pluto, you supercool outrider,
Were you targeted because you ain’t an orbital insider?
Don’t race rapidly as Mercury, ain’t mysterious as Venus,
Lack a Martian rouged up desert (and for that, from you, they weaned us!)
Yes you’re short of certain qualities,
We all admit that freely;
But that doesn’t make it right
For scientists to mouth you mealy.
Oh Pluto, my Pluto, in this hour I share your pain,
Like you I’ve long been distant from a cozy warming flame;
I’ve played the fringe eccentric, sought respect as oddball hero,
And ended (much like you) an absolute (in warmed terms) zero.
But though your rep’s been tarnished
And been taken to the cleaner,
There’s great comfort in the fact
That we will always both have Xena.
*****
©2007 Michael Silverstein
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