Making space
out past the stars
the aliens race
their souped-up
hot rod cars
in shapes
from saucers
to cigars. That's
how space is made
in this sky of ours. One day
maybe we will step out smart.
Join them up there, in silvery
tights and big plastic dome
hats, with antenna on.
Everything stylish
and state of the art.
They'll kill us, of course
They've seen our shows.
They've seen how they end,
and they know how it goes. With
one last, desperate rush
they'll unite and crush
while we die there, wondering
"What's wrong with us?"
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