So. Finally you christen us!
How kind of you, how gracious
to presume that for all the five
billion years we drifted here,
among the Kuiper Clutter
we did not know ourselves!
How generous of you, down there,
racing giddily round your fattened Sun
to name us after yet more deathly
characters from that darkest, dreary myth,
assuming all we do out here is drift
morosely in the gloom! Ha!
We call comets names as they
glide haughtily past, trailing their fancy
trains of plasma and sequined gas!
Blow raspberries at Father Pluto as
we prowl around him; knock upon
chrone Charon’s door then soar
away into the night, laughing!
“Nix” and “Hydra”? Pah.
You’d have us old before our time!
Surely you could have dreamed
up something better, brighter.
Especially with all that precious,
horded sunlight to inspire you…
© Stuart Atkinson