Inveigled!

She rose in chubby Quadrature
To prove she had the finest gold
And that her pocks were not too old
To be considered haute couture.
But then an icy cloud flew past
To briefly shade her royal face
Hoping, perhaps, to save a trace
Of mankind from her moonbeam blast!
But clouds take on a losing task
And though they try with all their might
To shade us with their misty masque
From all those beams in constant flight,
We will...inevitably bask
In the glory of her lunar light!