Part Trois
We’d start to lose room aboard the ship,
But I’d shove and push with my hip,
And make myself comfortable and cozy,
So that the rest of the trip would be rosy.
Where would we go now?
We’d have to plan our trip somehow.
I would have been to the Moon,
And we’d all have been to Mars since noon.
Well, Jupiter, of course, would be the next logical place.
It’s definitely way out there in space.
So why not? We’d set our course for the great red giant.
Would everyone agree? Of course, they’d be compliant.
“But should I bring it to your attention,”
Would interupt Hubert, in his voice an inflexion,
"That after consulting the Weather Network,
It seems a storm, a hurricane, on Jupiter does lurk.
According to Tom, the weather man,
It blows wind stronger than any fan,
It’s even colored red like a great swirling fire,
And it’s as big as Earth times three, maybe higher."
“Oh, oh, oh!” would perk up Sally with glee,
“Is there any lightening, can you see,
Can you, Hubert? On the screen? Out the window?
Oh, electricity excites me so, as you know.”
“Yes, my dear,” Hubert would answer,
“Where there’s a storm, you can be sure,
There’ll also be lightening galore,
So much, it’ll throw you to the floor.”
“Woaw, you, like, totally love electricity,”
Would comment Icy, the Queen from the Martian city,
"So do I. It totally powers my equipment sure enough,
My hair blower, my crimper, and all this other stuff.
Some I have to, like, plug in," she’d go on,
"Some need batteries that must last long.
In fact, I have a rad trimmer right here in my pocket,
And, like, Oh my God! There’s batteries in the socket!
Here, why don’t I, like, give them to you,
After all, it is the least I can do,
If it means befriending you and then some,
For your kind and bodaciously warm welcome."
And with that, Icy would remove the batteries,
As Sally would light up from all the flatteries.
She’d take them and apply them to her tongue.
She’d howl and yelp with every breath in her lung.
“Well, if electricity Sally likes so,
Then let’s aim for the red spot and go,”
I’d say, “Headlong into the storm,
Whether cold, hot, or luke warm.”
And so into the eye of the storm we’d head,
And though we’d be scared, we wouldn’t end up dead,
Not with me and my piloting skills at the helm,
Though my ship the gale winds would certainly overwhelm.
Into the red thick we’d disappear,
The howling winds would deafen the ear,
And as sure as we’d expect, and to Sally’s delight,
Lightening flashes would give us an awful fright.
But a little too soon, or a little too late,
I would somehow slip up and sealed our fate.
It would happen too fast for me to react,
But out the window I’d see the wing cracked,
Under the pressure of 1.21 gigawatts,
Traveling at the speed of a billion kilonots,
A bolt of lightning would have struck our ship,
And through the wing tore a great rip.
It would send us spinning, swirling, out of control,
And send us flying down an abysmal hole,
Through the great fog, that is, through the mire,
Through the hydrogen cloud that covers Jupiter entire.
And where would we land, you wonder?
Into a dirty old shack we’d crash like thunder,
Like a rusty old barn abandoned and forgotten,
Grey and crooked, with wooden boards rotten.
We’d crash right through the wall,
Into what would look like a bathroom stall,
With sewer lines broke and water erupting,
The spectacular mess would sure be something.
We’d step out of the ship, Sir Martian shaking,
And immediately we’d smell something baking,
It would be like turkey, bacon, or something dicy,
No, more like chicken wings, hot and spicy.
Indeed, in would come walking a greyhound,
Carrying a tray of eaten wings, about a pound.
He would look at us with those puppy dog eyes,
And on his face, a look of utter surprise.
He’d say: "Woof! What have you done?
Who awe you to wuin ouwe fun?
We were pwaying cawds and eating dese,
Chicken wings, wat is, wiv cwackews and cheese.
But now we have a meff to cwean,
De biggeft meff I evew seen."
He’d be right, I would have to admit.
I wouldn’t want to just stay there and sit.
I’d want to help him, of course.
I’d owe it to him to work like a horse,
For it would be the least I could do,
After bursting through his wall with my crew.
So I’d say "I’m terribly sorry, Spot,
Or is it Sparky, or Rex–well, maybe not.
Whatever your name is, I and my crew apologize,
For creating a hole in your wall of enormous size.
Now, please allow me to introduce myself,
I’m two years old, and small as an elf.
I’m a cute little boy named Gabriel,
And so I fit cribs and onesies very well.
And this is my crew whose names I will assert:
These are Sally, Immanuel, and Hubert,
And these are Teddy and Sir Martian, and that,
Max, is Icy, Queen of Mars–isn’t that phat?!"
“I’d say she wooks waver fin, and my name’s not Max!
It’s Bustew–nevew guess names, stick to facts!
And if you’w so sowwy, why don’t wou hewp,
To cwean dis up,” he’d bark at me and yelp.
“But of course, Buster, and sorry about the name.
I have a real problem,” I’d say to ease the pain,
“Of guessing people’s names”–and Sir Martian would say:
“In fact, he guessed my name 3 times just the other day!”
And with that, Buster lead us into the game room,
Where, to our stupifaction, we found what, I assume,
Were four other dogs playing poker,
I would not believe it: “Okay, whose the joker?”
I’d below out, “Whose brilliant stunt is this?
Do you really expect us to think nothing’s amiss?
I mean, what dog really plays poker, really?
This is obviously a facad, it’s just silly.”
“You, my fwiend,” would retort Spot, the great dane,
“Awe a doggyist–denying it would be in vein.
You assume ouw names awe de typicaw doggy names!
You give in to steweotypes and to sinistew games.”
“He’s wight, wou know,” Rex would add,
“To fink we can’t pway pokew is just sad,
We’w human too, you know, we’w intewigent,
Pwus de advantage of a nose wif awsome sent.”
“Yup,” would pipe up the twins, Puddles and Sparky.
The Poodles who, whether sense or malarkey,
Would respond together, at the same time,
Brother and sister were they, like rhymth and rhyme.
“Mawe,” would say Sparky, “Or femawe,” Puddles would say,
And then together: “We have wights dat awe hewe to stay,
Wheder spotted or pwane<sp?>, stwiped or pwad,
We take pwide in doghood, and it makes us gwad.”
And at that, all would howl and yipe,
For with doggihood they would have no gripe.
They’d be proud and exuberant, they would,
And of this, we’d make sure we understood.
“Wew, come on, I’w show you de bwoom,”
Buster would say, leaving the room.
He’d come back with brooms and hand them out,
From Rona or Home and Garden, no doubt.
“Now, as I was saying,” Rex continued,
From the conversation into which we did intrude,
"Dis pwobwem has been wiv us fow a whiwe,
And evew since it stawted, I haven’t seen a smiwe,
Fwom any one of you, now fwom mysewf,
De probwem, dat is, dewe on de shewf."
“You mean,” would yelp Sparky, “aww dat noffing?
De empy spafe, de void, de abfenfe of someffing?”
“Yes, Spawky, de wack of snacks on ouw shewf,
De wack of chips, cheesees, cookies fwom the Keebwe ewf,
De noffingness–except de empty bags,
Stwewn about amongst diwty wags.”
“Wex is wight, dis is a cwisis,” would say Spot,
"An de wowst is–an dis shouwd not be fowgot–
None of us awe vowonteewing,
Not even fow dis bootifuw eawwing,
Which I wiw offew anyone who goes,
And gets some mowe chips made fwom potatoes,
As wong as it’s not me,
Fow I’m in de middwe of a game, you see."
“But we’we aww in da middwe of a game,
Evwyone’s pwedicament is da same!”
“Exactwe, Pddwes, dat’s what I’m saying,
But at weast, wiv dis eawwing, I’m paying.”
And at each other, all would bark and hollar,
For only by being dragged by the collar,
Would any one leave the game to go,
To buy chips, crackers, and sugar covered dow.
“Now, wait a minute, guys! Heel!”
I’d say and abruptly did their clamor keel,
And all puppy dog eyes looked my way.
Having their attention, I’d continue to say:
“If you need someone to go to the store for you,
Why don’t I go–er, that is, I and my crew.
There’d be no need for you to get up at all,
As soon as we get unstuck from that wall.”
“But you awe stuck,” would remind old Buster,
“And de fwoow stiww doesn’t have its shiny wuster,
So keep cweaning, and weeve de doggy buisness to–
Unwess…” Buster would pause and turn to his doggy crew.
“Say… what if we wet de kid dwive ouw ship,
We could wet him take it for a spafe twip,
To go get snacks, of couwse, not just fow kicks.
If you did dis fow us, kid, I’w give you wicks.”
“What?! Awe you out of youw mind, Bustew?!?!”
Would protest Puddles, speaking for the doggy cluster,
“Twust dis kid wiv ouw ship? Absowutewy Nevew!
Not now, not evew - not even aftew fowever!”
“Weww,” would suggest Sparky, “One of us could twavew awong,
Someone to dwive ouw ship made compwetewy of tefwon.
Why did we get a ship made of tefwon?
As a matewiaw, its weawy not dat stwong.”
“I pwopose,” would say Puddles, “Dat be you,
You came up wiv de idea, isn’t it twue?”
“I did, but I’m in no position to go.
Fow to weave dis game would bwing me woe.”
“Same hewe,” would pipe up Rex,
And Spot’d add, “It’d bwing me vex.”
“Weww, I’m not going.” Buster would assert.
And they’d bark and howl so much, it would hurt!
“Okay, okay, okay, woaw, woaw, woaw!”
I’d calm things down and make them slow,
"Here’s a brilliant idea–if I may–
You have a ship, or so you say.
Why don’t we all go?
Buster, Puddles, the whole show?
Plus me and my crew, unless of course,
Your ship is smaller than a horse."
“Say…” would say Buster, “Da kids pwetty smawt,
Ethhhpeciawwy considewing he’s 2, the widdow fawt.
And it’s not a bad idea, in fact it’s smawt.
Not wike de ting I push outa my butt–a fawt.”
“Well,” I’d contort, “My idea’s worth more than fart,
But you are right about one thing–I am smart.
And I’m serious too–we should all pack together,
And fly in your ship, through sun or stormy weather.”
“Da kid’s wight,” would say Spot,
“Wet’s stwike de iwon when its hot,
And take the oppowtunity to eawnestwy decide,
Dat by dis pwan, we won’t have to divide.”
“But we muft stiww divide,” would interrupt Rex,
“Fow whose gonna dwive? Puddles of de opposite sex?”
"Now, Wex, we poddwe giwls can dwive just as weww,
As you mawe dogs–don’t make me waise heww!
But, be dat as it may, I’m not dwiving."
Spot would concur: “To dwive, I’m not stwiving.”
“Neider am I,” would insist Sparky,
“Not me,” Buster would say snarkly.
And of course, the barking and yelping would begin,
But again, I would arbiter, and bring back a grin,
On Buster’s, Spot’s, Rex’s, Sparky’s and Puddle’s face.
And sooner than later, we’d be back up in space.