Back Side of the Moon
On the back side of the moon,
Under miles of ancient rocks,
The robots scurry to and fro
Extracting square cut blocks
Of rare earth metal ores
(Lanthanides, there're called).
They all get strapped to rolling stock
And then by rail are hauled
To smelters on the surface
The metals are refined,
And shuttles haul the ingots to
Fixed Orbit Station Nine.
A massive operation and
Quite lucrative it seems.
How great is man's ambition and
How greedy are his dreams.
While the robots do the heavy work
Some people are here too,
For patching up these hunks of junk,
(The Lunar Fixit Crew).
Our work is done in terminals.
But sometimes we must go
Outside the station's pressure dome,
Beneath the star light's glow.
My contract is for seven years.
I guess that point is moot.
I dropped a carbide cutting tool
Which ripped my pressure suit.
There's no way I can make it back,
The terminal's too far.
My lungs afire I gasp for breath
Beneath these brilliant stars.
No, peace does not come quickly nor
Can death arrive too soon,
When you feel your blood start boiling
On the back side of the moon.
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