Fried Moon.

While going to sleep during a triumphant weekend nap, my brain burped up the first line of this. I decided to finish it.

Fried Moon

For you I'd smother,

The Moon in butter,

And fry it in the Sun.

For time, 

I use,

The stars,

Pulsars, 

To tell me when it's done.

To slice the thing,

Saturn's iced ring,

Slips through rock molten red.

Round Neptune's curves,

It swerves,

I serve it,

In Jupiter bread.