As the Sun, I think, I have a raw deal	and it makes me uneasy to see
that in your paintings, and pictures
	and old artifacts, my face is there smiling at me.

Smiling? No beaming, that's what you call it.
	I've practically got my own word.
But if you were the Sun, put yourself in my place,
	all this smiling's a little absurd.

Now I admit that I have a…a fondness for Earth
	and those cute little probes that you send.
I'm not one for pictures, but if it's for a good cause
	then I guess I can muster a grin.

But every last picture?  For thousands of years?
	I feel as though I've been slandered
And the fact that you think that's the way that I look,
	I just can't live up to that standard.

I mean, I would think, as friends for so long,
	that by now we would have a rapport.
That we might share our emotions, have a serious talk,
	play a game, shoot the breeze—something more.

But for thousands of years you people of Earth
	have worshiped my sight in the sky.
Except that's not where I am, it's just where I was
	8 minutes ago when you passed by.

I don't mean to complain.  I'm not a big grump.
	I'm flattered, I am, but you see,
how our relationships grown from something that's true
	to this cartoonish one-dimensional me?

So there, now I've said it.  And I do feel much better.
	Please take to heart my remarks.
Oh, and if you insist on painting more smiles,
	well I hope you can paint in the dark.

— The Sun