He was a good old American boy:
Draped like an idol in the stars & stripes.
He was a firm believer in freedom
And the grand power of progress.
He was a bright, comic book Buck Rogers:
Made flesh & blood; stylish, cool & cocky.
O he dreamed of scaling heavenly heights
Like Belief’s kind angels..o how he dreamed!
Yes he was born to roam the galaxy!
O if you could picture him in his prime!
With his bulky suit and bubble helmet
Dragging His N.A.S.A space cart behind him
To collect the random, lunar rocks;
Wearily climbing significant craters:
All in the name of cold, calculated science.
O but he is most fondly remembered
As the first man to hit a golf ball on,
The crude media saturated moon.
In that same crucial mission, he swung hard
And true with trusted, rusted six iron
At a teed up, miniature pock marked moon.
O yes it shot out of a spray of dust
And it traveled for miles & miles & miles…
Our hero would become immortalized!
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