I’m a spinning, winning, tripping, zipping, super-sonic ice queen:
See my moon zoom, clock my rocket, watch me splutter tricksy space-steam.
I’m the dust bomb, I’m the freeze sneeze, I’m the top galactic jockey
made (they think) of gas and ice and mystery bits of something rocky.
Oh I sting a sherbet orbit, running rings round star or planet;
should I shoot too near the sun, my tail hots up: ouch- OUCH-please fan it!
And I’m told I hold the answer to the galaxy’s top question:
that my middle’s name of history (no surprise I’ve indigestion)
but for now I sprint and skid and whisk and bolt and belt and bomb it;
I’m that hell-for-leather, lunging, plunging, helter-skelter COMET.