Lofty

The mist upon the bay cannot delay
a golden beast from rising in the east
to start the day by eating up the gray
that seems at least to be a filling feast,
for it's too plump to ever try to jump
and somehow slip our mother's clingy grip,
but soon the grump is more than just a bump
it clears the tip, a smirk across its lip
because it's bright enough to know its stuff
has all the pull it needs and supercedes
the force of any other place in this small space;
at night we blindly bluff a cool rebuff,
while darker deeds abound our promise feeds
on hopes the brute will always grace our race.