Sci-Fi So Good

 

I look up to the spickly skies and wonder whether creatures

are idly looking down on me with glubulitious features.

For if the truth is out there (and I have no cause to doubt),

is it green or mangerine and does it blodge about?

Does it wear snickly nylon suits that sprackle when it walks

and will it chuggle like a baby every time it talks?

 

The aliens ride on saucepan lids, I’ve seen it on TV,

they carry phasersshetoschtun that make a noise like schweeee –

and should I split infinitives and wish to boldly go,

I’ll have to tweak my loppylugs and fork my fingers, so.

I’ll have three ears upon my head – one left, another right

and a final, front ear, on my face that aids me with my sight.

 

Why is it when I see ET it makes me think of granny?

It must be that he’s kind and sweet and looks all wizendenny.

His voice is like a wheezy cat that squicks and spleems and choffs –

just like the noise my granny makes, every time she coughs.

Yet – no matter where I wonder and no matter where I moan,

I know, when I’m at granny’s, there’s no problem phoning home.

 

My ship would be a portaloo that blooped through time and space.

I’d meet lots of beeglebugs and introduce the human race.

We’d watch the suns-set on a beach of psyflourescent sand

and calmly stroll into the sea with tentacle in hand.

We’d sprinkle vinegar on globs and eat them with a sigh.

I’d catch the glamming moons of Zos in each and every eye.

 

I wish I had a kettlehat that shone with glissery gleam,

Or a clever, stylised, sink plunger that whistled as it bleemed.

I’d give my right arm for a zapper, pumping deadly krayon rays

Or an Arfurfonzareli suit – sheer bliss – oh, happy days!

But you can leave that all behind, if only you would bring on

That ribbly, crinkled, pastiehead – I Vont To Be A Klingon.