The Lunatic of Canterbury

There is a lune who walks down Canterbury,
Hands in his hole-covered pockets.
Grasping a dead rat like a Swiss timepiece,
Between his bony sockets.

His voice piggybacking on the hide of the wind,
Unto the other who sits.
With neither eyes of his own nor a body to condone,
The other waits patiently for the lune to commit.

The lune then concludes his argument, steps, turns around and sits down,
Preparing to trade faces.
The lune the watcher; the watcher the lune.
Now they have both switched places.

"I beg you to answer, why the council sits on the Moon,
Keeping ever-so silent.
Like a curse lurking in a desolate tomb.
Beckoning for one not compliant."

"Methinks they plan to replace us, oh Brother.
Remember! We are the Founders of the Colony.
With many enemies looking towards our seats,
Brother, we must protect our progeny!"

The lune again sits, swapping faces once more,
"Peace brother, we must not be hasty.
Let the Rabbits return from the Winter Plain,
Silence, for we are a little too privy."

"Talking the matter in the open,
Is short of outright mutiny.
Even we are not exempt from death, oh Brother.
Now let us consume this Hennessy."

As the lune reaches in , searches his coat,
And produces a bottle in a brown, paper bag,
He concludes his discussion with a toast to long life,
Allowing his body to sag.

My, my! What a high to live life day-to-day,
In a world no one else can exhume.
For with these accepted lies, that we hold as truth.
Devil damned, I might consider becoming a lune too.