Moona Moona

Unless... says Sartre.

Unless? says Prong.

We tie one end of the string to you, says Sartre. And let it out as you ascend with the baby.

Prong tries to think this plan through.

Nothing seems wrong with it. 

Okay, says Prong.

Get started! says Terence. People are coming.

A group of keen tourists are forming a short queue nearby.

Who's going to tie the string to me? asks Prong.

I'll do it, says Federico. I'm used to this sort of thing.

How so? asks Sartre.

In the theatre, says Federico. When I'm putting on plays.

I heard you were a poet, says Sartre.

That too, says Federico. 

Ballad of the Moon Moon, says Arthur. That's one of his.

Moon moon? says Terence. Why are there two moons?

Federico starts tying the string to Prong's leg.

It just sounds better, says Federico.

No it doesn't, says Terence.

In Spanish, says Federico.

Oh, says Terence. Moona moona.

Not moona moona, says Federico. Luna luna.

Baby Pierre made up a moon poem, says Terence.

How did it go? asks Federico.

Terence can't remember.

Arthur can.

O moon O moon, round and green, says Arthur.

Very nice, says Federico. 

He finishes tying the string.

Prong is now ready. She grips a baby Sylvanian bear in her beak.

Up she flies, as Federico lets the string out.

She lands on the cypress.

At last, says Holy Spitball. But what's with the string?

It's instead of the rope, says Prong. This is a delicate operation.

I see, says Holy Spitball.

But he does not see.

He had envisaged a rope to hold his bear in place.

A rope like the tail of a monkey.