a poem.

I wish I could say I had written this, but I didn't.

Isn't it lovely?

WHAT DO YOU MAKE OF THE STARS

Written by Tim Mayor

Would you look at the number of stars out tonight,

I can't think when I've ever seen starlight so bright.

You can see why they say it's romantic, all right;

All those men with Flamenco guitars.

Can you find what your ancestors pictured up there?

Can you pick out the archer, the dog and the bear?

Do you know that the starlight is crowning your hair

with the wealth of the last of the Czars?

I don't know how much stargazing's ever been worth.

I don't know that the heavens acknowledge the Earth,

But it seems like a star did a dance at your birth.

Tell me, what do you make of the stars?

Do you dream of a day when a rocket appears,

And you scramble aboard and discover the gears

And the next thing you know you're a thousand light years

From this strange little planet of ours?

And you look out the window, and what do you see?

Is it anything like what you thought it would be?

They say, "traveling is broadening," don't you agree?

Tell me, what do you make of the stars?

If you go, I should warn you that somewhere in space

There's a great big black hole with a scowl on its face,

And it's eating the stars at a furious pace,

Just like you go through chocolate bars.

I don't want you to worry, but what would you say

If you woke up some otherwise wonderful day

And were told that a Black Hole was headed YOUR way

Tell me, what do you make of the stars?

When we're young we like anything fiery and bright

Like the Fourth of July or a Christmas tree light.

We strike big kitchen matches, although it's not right,

And stick glow-worms in mayonnaise jars.

But someday we'll grow older, as most people do,

We'll look up at the sky and the stars and they're no longer new.

So we'll have to ask somebody little, like you,

Tell me, what do you make of the stars?