–But suddenly, we’d all jump,
From a sound that made the ground thump,
It’d be too loud and obnoxious to miss,
And it would go something like this:
“HELLO MERCURY!!! ARE YOU READY TO ROCK!!!?”
A crowd would roar and give us a shock,
“I SAID ARE YOU READY TO ROCK!!!?”
Would repeat the voice like work of a clock.
The crowd would roar again a deafening roar,
As if emanating from Mercury’s core,
“THEN LET’S ROCK!!!” the voice finally said,
Then would come a blast that would wake the dead.
It would be the sound of a guitar,
An electric one that couldn’t be far;
The sound would be awful, like a screeching cry,
And would make you go: “Why, God, why?!”
Then worse than the sound would come the lyrics,
For in my ears, I’d wish I could lodge sticks;
They’d speak of metal, darkness, and death,
Of fire and brimstone, until out of breath:
“♫ Darkness and death, ♬ ♭ darkness and death, ♪” they’d go,
“♬♪ The world is on fire, it’s frozen in snow; ♪♪
♬ Oh how I burn, oh how I freeze, ♫
♮♩ No one will let me do as I please! ♪♫♪”
“GET DOWN!!!” would admonish Gurtrude,
Pulling us to the ground, there to be glued,
At least Sir Martian and I, that is to say,
But the rest would immediately obey,
For she’d certainly have, Gurtrude I mean,
A commanding voice, like a queen,
It would be louder than the blaring sounds,
Of the terrible music blasting somewherez 'rounds.
“Stay low,” she’d continue, "Ve’re under attack!
“What?!” over the noise, Bill would yell back,
“I said ve’re under attack, you silly head!
Stay still or you might be dead!”
“Stella might eat bread?!” Bill would question,
The noise being too loud to hear with precision,
“Ve’re under attack, Bill, ve’re under attack!
Just don’t move, just watch your back!”
“I don’t think, my dear,” Bill would suggest,
“That it’s an attack, for I think at best,
It’s just a music concert, though awful I admit,
But I don’t think we need worry, not one bit.”
“Well, where’s it coming from?!”
Would ask Sir Martian, in the air his bum,
“I don’t know,” I’d reply, looking around,
But all I’d see was us, the ship, and a grey hound–
That would be Buster, and the rest of the doggies,
Covering their ear–those things lacked by froggies–
For especially sensitive are doggy ears,
If they didn’t cover them, they would shed tears.
“It’s but a desolate landscape,” Immanuel would say,
“Nothing for miles–near or far away–
Except for a few craters here and there,
Especially that big one, big beyond compare!”
“Big indeed,” I would state,
“Let us get closer to investigate.”
“Vonderbar idea, captain Gaby,”
Gurtrude would concur, "but maybe,
Just maybe, in case it is an attack,
I suggest ve stay down on our back,
Or our front, vich ever you prefer,
Just don’t stand up–zat’s for sure."
So we’d crawl on our bellies, some on our backs,
Making sure to cover up our tracks–
We’d crawl towards the crater up ahead,
To see it from a different vantage point instead.
And what would we see, peering over the edge?
Why, the sight would hit us like a hammer of sledge!
A rock concert, it would be–
Clear as day, we would all see.
Lining the sides of this crater so vast,
Would be millions of people having a blast;
All gathered 'round the center, they’d be,
Gathered 'round the stage, believe you me.
On the stage, at the center,
Surrounded by bouncers who’d let no one enter,
Would be four medieval looking dudes in black,
Covered in metal studs, front to back,
And their hair would be something else indeed,
As if they’d be from a different breed,
It’d be long and wieldy, crazy and wild,
With spray would they undoubtedly be styled.
And their faces would be anything but plain,
Not just from the look of pain,
From scrunching their lips and squinting their eyes,
As they’d sing their lyrics with awful cries,
But from all the makeup and paint,
Colored black and white, enough to make you faint,
That is, if you weren’t used to that kind of thing,
As if the only rock star you knew was Sting.
One guy would have a star around his eye,
Another would look like a cat–oh God, why?
And on their feet–could it be?
Indeed it could–for you see,
They’d all be wearing, so it would seem,
Platform shoes–silver and shiny, they’d gleam–
Giving them the advantage of a few inches more,
So as to tower a bit further above the floor.
So there they’d be, rocking on stage,
Strumming their guitars with passionate rage,
Twisting and grinding their bodies all 'round,
Spewing out the most hellish sound,
When all of a sudden, the ground would give way–
The ground, that is, where Gurtrude would stay–
The soil under her back would not be solid,
Which she’d think was absolutely squalid.
A chunk of the crater’s edge, in other words,
Would disintegrate, like a flock of birds,
Scattering from a tree and flying away,
From a loud sound or a scarecrow amidst hay,
But there’d be no hay here, sunny,
Just a twist of events kinda’ nutty,
In fact, it’d be sorta’ funny,
For like snot when its runny,
She’d trickle down the slope,
And like an oblivious dope,
Bill would be next,
For his luck would be vexed.
He’d be right beside Gurtrude,
In the spot where the ground was crude,
And so it would give way under him too,
Compelling him to utter “Oh, poo!”
They’d slide together as we’d watch;
They’d slide until they became a blotch,
A blur in our visual field,
And upon joining the crowd, they’d yield.
In fact, Gurtrude, being on her back,
Would be picked up like a sack–
She’d slide atop the crowd, that is,
Inadvertently crowd surfing–that’s show biz.
Bill would just bump into a dude,
Who’d look back, like in a bad mood.
He’d growl, giving Bill a fright,
Then turn around putting Bill out of sight.
Bill would get up, looking for Gurtrude,
Trying to spot her above the crowd so lewd,
And when he’d see she was crowd surfing–
Or as the Smurfs might say: “crowd smurfing!”–
He would take a deep breath,
And nearly leap to his death–
He’d jump onto the crowd, that is to say,
Twisting onto his back, into the fray.
Like a couple rafts in the ocean,
Guided by the waves in ongoing motion,
The crowd would veer them this way and that,
Pretty soon, they’d forget where they’d be at,
But after a while, it would become clear,
For when to the stage, Bill would draw near,
On stage, they’d have launched him,
If someone wouldn’t have caught his limb–
A bouncer would grab him by the heel,
As he’d fly by him like tape reel,
And yank him back down to Earth,
Or Mercury, for what it’s worth.
“Looks like we got a trouble maker,”
The bouncer would say, so unlike a Quaker,
"You know, we gotta place for people like you,
A place here on Mercury, it’s true,
For people who think they’re above the crowd–
No pun intended–point is, you’re not allowed–
You’re not allowed to go on stage,
And the fact that you tried fills me with rage!
Why I ought to take you out back,
And stuff you in a sack,
And pound on you 'til you cry,
In fact, I think I will–why shouldn’t I?"
Meanwhile, Gurtrude would be close by,
And would overhear the bouncer ask why;
She’d tell that Bill was in trouble,
And would have to do something on the double.
“LOSLASSEN MICH!!!” she’d scream,
And like a well-oiled team,
Everyone would shut up all at once,
Even the band would stop their stunts.
“LOSLASSEN MICH RIGHT NOW!!!” she’d repeat,
And immediately they would drop her on her seat;
She’d get to her feet right away,
And command: “Let that man go, today!!!”
The bouncer, stunned as he’d be,
Would obey the command, most certainly;
He’d release his grip, letting Bill go,
Ending Bill’s trials of woe.
“Wooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwww!”
Would exclaim the vocalist amidst the show,
"Dudes, it looks like a commotion,
Er some kinda bogus notion,
What’s happenin’ bro?
Why’d you interrupt our show?"
Bill would look up at the man on stage,
“Who me?” he’d ask trying not to enrage,
Anyone else after his close encounter,
With the scary looking bouncer,
“Yeah you, man,” would reply the base player,
“Don’t be such a hater.”
“Do you wanna come up on stage?”
Would ask the vocalist trying to gauge,
Bill’s true motives, his mental state,
Which would be confusion at any rate.
Bill would reply: “Uh… not really,”
“What?!” the vocalist would say to poor Billy,
“I said not really!” Bill would say it again,
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!!” would shout the vocalist–and then:
The crowd would shout and cheer,
Almost deafening Bill’s ear–
He’d try one more time: “I SAID NOT REALLY!!!”
“WELL, COME ON THEN, SILLY!!!”
The vocalist would reach out his hand,
And pull Bill onto land–
Metaphorically, that is to say,
From the sea of fans, to his dismay.
So on stage, Bill would get yanked,
Without even being asked or thanked,
For his participation in this act,
But there he’d be–on stage–a fact!
And once there, he’d be handed a guitar,
By the bassist, the second rock star,
Into Bill’s hand he’d shove the thing,
Looking all silvery and shiny, with bling,
“Well, play somethin’,” he would beckon,
The vocalist, that is, I’d reckon,
“Go ahead, dude, strum a chord,
Don’t be shy, don’t make us board.”
Bill would be petrified at first,
He’d think this was just the worst,
He’d look at Gurtrude down below,
Who would signal: go on with the show!
So from the fret he’d grab the pick,
And with a hearty hand, the chords he’d flick,
And out would come a deafening sound,
Followed by cheers from the crowd all 'round.
“Is that?” I’d have to ask,
“Yep,” all would say as they’d bask,
In the sound of Bill’s first performance,
As he’d play at the seat of his pants.
“Aw, crikey, yew can dew betta th’n that,”
Would say the keyboardist, looking like a cat,
“Well… ok,” would say Bill hesitantly,
As he’d prepare to strum again intently,
He’d raise the pick above his head,
And like a massive heap of led,
He’d bring it crashing down upon the strings,
Hard enough that even Earthlings,
Back on Earth could hear the sound–
A new passion Bill would have found–
For he’d start to like it, he would,
And without even thinking if he should,
He’d raise his arm once again,
To take another strum, and then–
And then, he would do it,
Realizing there was nothing to it,
And then the most awesome thing would happen,
Something that would wake anyone who was nappin’,
Bill would play a solo on the fly,
Don’t ask how, don’t ask why.
But it’d be amazing, it’d be brilliant,
Bill’s secret talent would be resilient,
Resilient, that is, to imperfection,
Resilient, even, to indigestion,
If in his gut, Bill would have felt it,
For even then, he would have dealt it,
This beautiful solo, as I say,
For this was one hell of a day.
The crowd would roar, they would cheer,
For such a solo to hit the ear,
Would compel anyone to applaud;
Not to do so would be very odd.
“Awwwriiight dude!!!” would say the vocalist–
To compliment Bill would be his gist–
“I never knew I had it in me!”
Bill would reply with jubilant glee,
“Well, it’s there dude, no doubt!”
The drummer would shout,
“Yeah, man, like totally,”
Would say the keyboardist excitedly,
“What’s your name, dude?”
The vocalist’d say not to be rude,
“Bill,” would reply Bill,
Feeling a bit self-conscious still.
"Well, Bill, allow me to introduce myself,
The name’s Slate, much taller than an elf,
Even without the platform shoes, man,
For I can reach really tall–I sure can–
And that there’s my main man Ace,
Who’s totally wicked on the base,
And the keyboardist over there,
The one with the wily hair,
That’s Duke, keyboardist extraordinaire,
(He also runs a shop: The Scrumptious Donaire),
And finally, behind me is Biff, our drummist;
Don’t mistake him for the dumbest,
For he’s totally smart and stuff,
And if that’s not enough,
He’s awesome at figure skating,
Which is way I’m totally debating,
Turning our gig into an ice show–
Seriously, man! Totally, like, y’know–
Wouldn’t that be wicked? Wouldn’it?
That’s what should happen, shouldn’it?"
“Uh… yeeeaaah,” Bill would sarcastically say,
“Can I go? Or do you want me to stay?”
“What’s yo’ rush, bloke?” would say Duke,
“D’we make yew sick? Wanna puke?”
“No,” Bill would say, “it’s not that–”
“Well, com’ on then, let’s go chat,”
Ace would say inviting Bill along,
For before they’d sing the next song,
There’d be an intermission,
A chance for them to recondition,
Their musical instruments and vocals,
In order to entertain the anticipating locals.
“Wha’ abou’ yo’ babe there?”
Would ask Duke with the wily hair,
“My babe?” would question Bill,
“I sink, darling,” would spill,
From the mouth of Gurtrude,
“Zat he is referring to me, razer rude,
For I am no man’s ‘babe’, sank you very much;
I am a madam, a lady, a madamoizel und such.”
“Well, do ya wanna come?”
Would persist Duke, “Well, um,”
Would reply Gurtrude with hesitation,
And after a second of reluctant consternation,
She’d agree and climb on stage,
Still with a slight hint of rage,
From being called a babe, that is,
But would soon forget about that biz.
“We’re gonna take a little break now,”
Would announce Slate somehow–
And that somehow was through the microphone–
What else would he use, an ice cream cone?
“So y’all sit tight and we’ll be back,”
The crowd would cheer in the darkness black,
Awaiting the moment when they would re-engage,
Returning, that is, back on stage;
“Like, where are they going?”
Would ask Icy without knowing,
How long they’d be gone for,
Whether an hour, two, or even more.
“I don’t know, my dear;
I don’t know how far or near,”
Would be Immanuel’s educated guess;
“Probably near, so don’t stress.”
“But in any case,” I would add,
"It would be terribly sad,
If we just up and left right now,
Before they returned somehow.
So as the captain of this crew,
I say we wait for those two,
As long as it takes, I say,
We won’t abandon them today."
Meanwhile, back stage with the band,
In the dressing room they would stand,
And then sit down on couches and chairs,
Throwing away all their worries and cares.
Bill would look around the room,
And spot a poster of a tomb,
A grave stone, that is to say,
Kind of spooky looking, dark and grey,
Like in a cemetery with fog on the ground,
And pitch black in the sky all 'round;
Surrounding the tomb stone would be,
The band, the four guys, plain to see.
They’d be posing, looking all goth,
Colorless, like a creepy looking moth,
And atop the poster above each head,
It would say: “The Rockin’ Dead”.
“The Rockin’ Dead? Is that your name?”
Would say Bill, trying not to sound lame,
“Darn rights,” would say Biff,
“If y’don’t like it, y’re a stiff.”
“Calm down, man,” would say Slate,
“Remember, these are guests, don’t hate.”
"Dude, I’m not hatin’,
Why you always gotta be debatin’?
Y’re, like, always debatin’ with me, man–
Everything I say, you like, shove it in a can,"
“I don’t shove it in a can,” Slate would reply,
“We just sometimes disagree, so don’t cry.”
“Sometimes?” would ask Biff,
“More like always, you stiff,”
“What? I’m not stiff?” Slate would retort,
“What kinda come back is that, sport?”
“Oh,” Biff would reply, “so I’m a sport now?”
“That’s no’ even an insault, yew cow!”
Would interject Duke, adding his two cents,
“Yeah, man,” would add Ace, his tone intense,
“Usually when someone calls you sport,
It means friend, or something of that sort.”
“Aw, man,” Biff would say, “it’s mutual,
Y’re all against me–as usual.”
Finally, after all the bickering,
And amidst Bill’s snickering,
Gurtrude would speak up,
Like a yappy little pup:
“ENOUGH!!!” she’d below out,
"Don’t make me scream und shout!
You’re all acting like babies!
No buts, doubts, or maybes!
Now, you invited us back here.
Vas zere a reason, darling dear?
Vas zere somesing you vish to tell us,
Or can ve return to our ship wizout fuss?"
“Well, uuuuuuh–” Biff would begin.
But then Slate, with a grin,
Would interrupt him,
And say on a whim:
“You say you have a ship?
Or do you pay me service of lip?”
“No, it’s true, we have a ship indeed,”
Would say Bill, “Why? Are you in need?”
“Well, it’s always been my dream,”
Slate would say to the entire team,
"After the last song we sang,
To end our show with a bang,
Hear me out, boys and girl,
I want to throw the crowd into a swirl,
I want to wow them, to blow their minds,
I’ve wracked my brains for ideas of all kinds,
But a spaceship–oh, man, wow!
That totally takes the cake, and how;
What we should do, at the end of the show,
Is board a spaceship and just go–
Take off, that is, leave them in a daze,
Fly away into the sky, into the haze,
And I wanna stand there at the doorway,
Waving to the crowd as we go away."
“Wooooaaaaw”, they’d all say unanimously,
Except Bill and Gurtrude who, simultaneously,
Would look at each other as if to say:
It ain’t that great an idea, eh?
“So, like,” he’d continue,
“If it’s OK with you,
Can we, like, borrow your spaceship?
We’ll totally return it after our trip.”
“Hmmmm…” they’d both say together,
“I sink it depends on ze weazer,”
Gurtrude would reply with Bill’s concurrence,
"Plus in order to give you our assurance,
Our fearless captain, ve need to consult,
Our fearless captain, less zan an adult,
Ozervise, ve’ll give you promises,
Over vich you should be doubting Thomases."
“Hey, babe, that would be great!”
Old Biff would reply before too late–
That is, before she would change her mind,
And before Bill would respond in kind.
“So it’s settled then,” would add Slate,
“You guys can go talk to your mate,
Y’r captain dude who flies y’r ship,
See if we can, like, borrow it for space trip.”
“Uh, I guess, sure,” Bill would reply,
And then whisper to Gurtrude: “Why?
Why did you get us into this mess?
Why did you cause us undue stress?”
“Oh, buck up young man,
Go wiz ze flow, stick to ze plan,”
Gurtrude would silently snap back,
Trying to keep Bill on track.
“All right, dude and dudette,
Here’s the plan, don’t forget,”
Would continue Slate all excited,
"It’s a plan to make us all united,
You go back to your fearless captain,
Tell ‘em somethin’ crazy’s happenin’,
Tell 'em he can be a part of our show,
That’s quite an honor, you know.
What he needs to do is this:"
Slate would continue, dressed like KISS–
The band, that is, with Gene Simmons,
The one liked by all the womens–
"What your fearless captain needs to do,
Along with you and the rest of y’r crew,
Is to fly low to the stage,
Right when we finish our last song: Rage,
He’ll know when to start the ship,
When he hears the words spill from my lip:
‘Rage! Rage! Rage! It gets worse with age!
Rage! Rage! Rage! I make minimum wage!’
It’s a song from our past, sis and bro,
When we were making a wage so low."
“It’s true,” would add Ace,
"We used to work at such a bogus place,
A place called Schmizzle’s Burger Hut,
Our manager was such a douchebag nut,
He paid us minimum wage,
Which really filled us with Rage!"
“Hence,” would say Duke, “dude and dudette,
Writ’n this song was no regre’.”
“In fact,” Biff would pipe up again,
"What really boiled my blood about Ben–
Ben Schmizzle, that is, our boss–
Is how he would never ever floss,
But the 2nd thing which made me mad,
Was how it was so not rad,
That he put me in charge,
Of making the famous burger so large:
The Release-the-Greece Heart Attack–
Dude, I tell ya’, that’s so not wack!"
“The Release-the-Greece Heart Attack?”
Would ask Bill, being sure not to lack,
Any information these guys would convey–
No way would he miss this info, no way!
“Yes, the Release-the-Grease Heart Attack,”
Biff would repeat, "better than the Big Mac!
But the effort it would take,
The toil and sweat required to make,
Such a burger is beyond belief–
I wasn’t even allowed the relief,
Of eating one myself, when I got hungry–
Especially when faced with something so sundry–
That is, sundry with yummy ingredients,
But we had to maintain obedience,
I had to do my job,
It totally made me feel like a knob!"
“You know what I heard, dude?”
Would interrupt Ace trying not to be rude,
"I heard that Ben stole the idea,
And I don’t mean from no encyclopedia;
I heard he stole the idea from a hot dog vendor,
And reaped the rewards, the glory, and the splendor,
He benefits from the idea of a hard working soul,
And from that, our rage has taken a toll."
“Well, geez, dudes,” would reply Bill,
"That certainly doesn’t sound like a thrill,
But if we can return to the topic at hand–
That is, how our crew can help your band–
I’d say, well, we’ll think about it,
On the idea, Gurtrude and I will sit,
We’ll contemplate it, I mean to say,
We’ll need a few hours, maybe a day."
“Dude!” Gurtrude would interrupt,
"Ve don’t have a day–I mean, 'tsup?
Wazzup wiz your sinking, man?
I mean, seriously, get wiz ze plan!
Ze concert vill be over in about an hour,
I sink your brain needs a cold shower,
Ve must make a decision somehow,
Ve must come to a consensus now."
“Frickin’ rights, babe,” Biff would say,
“I suggest you go with the plan, if I may.”
“Vell, of course you vould suggest zat,”
Gurtrude would say eyeing Biff like a rat,
“It’s your plan, vat else vould you suggest?
Zat we refuse like a rude guest?”
“So you agree!” would utter Slate,
“Then it’s settled! That’s wicked! That’s Great!”
“Well, wait just a minute–” Bill would hesitate,
“So all that’s needed now,” would suggest Slate,
"Is to give your captain the scoop:
Wait for the signal and then swoop,
Swoop in just above the stage,
Just before we wrap up with Rage,
Our number one hit song,
Been number one for so long.
Swoop in low and open the side hatch,
And lower a rope which we’ll catch,
Up we’ll climb, upwards and onwards,
Up to the hatch door, mark my words,
And once we’re all inside,
With the hatch door still open wide,
I’ll hang myself out for one last view,
And salute the crowd, flying into the yonder blue."
“That’s right,” Ace would concur,
“Just remember the signal, as it were,
the lyrics, how do they go?
Com’ on, this is a test–you need t’know.”
“Er, uh,” Bill would contemplate,
“Rage, rage, rage, hate, hate, hate–”
“No, no, man,” Gurtrude would interrupt,
"Veren’t you listening? Are your ears corrupt?
It goes: ‘Rage, rage, rage, it gets vorse wiz age,
Rage, rage, rage, I make minimum vage.’"
“You got it, sis,” Ace would approve,
“You listen to her, man, she’s got groove.”
Bill would sink in his chair,
And with a sign of irritation, lose another hair,
“Vell,” Gurtrude would go on,
"It looks like before ve’re gone,
Ve’ll be picking up a few more passengers,
So long, zat is, as we act like messengers,
Carrying your message back to our fearless captain,
Gabriel, zat is, let him know vat’s happenin’,
I’m sure he’ll agree to all your terms,
He seems decisive, not like ze worms,
Und he’ll decide: Yes! Yes, to ze plan!
I know zis despite having only just met ze man."
“Awesome!” Slate would say,
“Tubular!” would say Ace amongst the fray,
“Bodacious!” would add Duke whose hair was wily
“Gnarly!” would say Biff finally.
“Groovy!” would pipe up Bill,
As a knee jerk reaction, as a frill,
Before sinking back into his shell,
Remaining silent like dried up hair gel.
But in any case, this idea, this plan,
Would be that with which they ran,
They’d run back to me and the crew,
To relay the message and speak true,
No lies, no exaggerations, just the facts,
Gurtrude would begin by saying "Relax,
Captain Gaby, don’t fret, don’t spaz,
Zey just vant a little dazzly-dazz.
Somesing spectacular to end zeir show,
All ve have to do, you know,
Is fly our ship over ze stage,
At ze end of zeir song Rage–"
“Yeah, Rage!” would add Bill,
“It goes: ‘Rage, rage, rage, I wanna kill!
Rage, rage rage, it makes me feel ill!’
Right, Gurtrude? Right?” but she’d remain still,
For a good five seconds, she’d remain silent,
Though she’d feel rage and almost violent,
She’d keep her calm though,
And just look down low,
Shaking her head and holding her nose,
Disappointed in Bill, one of her bros,
But just to clarify the situation,
And to redeem Bill of any condemnation,
Which she’d feel like dishing out,
She’d calmly and politely not shout,
That Bill was understandably mistaken,
And would then explain the real bacon,
The actual lyrics, that is to say,
So that I’d be well informed on this day,
And know exactly when to take my cue,
To blast off towards the stage with my crew.
Obviously, the ship aboard which we’d climb,
Wouldn’t be mine, a wreck so unsublime–
No, we’d climb aboard Sir Martian’s ship,
About which Gurtrude would start flapping her lip:
"Oh no, I’m not going anyvere viz you–
You Martian boy, green und blue–
Not vile you are at ze helm,
For your driving does overvhelm–
It overvhelms me wiz fear und dread,
Zat I vill lose my pretty head.
Vouldn’t you agree, Bill my dear?
Wouldn’t it fill you wiz fear?
Ze sought of Sir Martian driving?
To avoid zat, vouldn’t you be striving?"
“I have no qualms agreeing with that,”
Bill would agree at the drop of a hat,
“For with Sir Martian at the wheel,
Our ride has been all too surreal,
All too bumpy and crazy-like,
Like a two year old riding a bike.”
“Well, this two year old,”
I would speak up loud and bold,
And with my hands at each hip,
"Will be driving this ship,
I’m sure Sir Martian will abide,
For he knows I’m the captain on this ride,
Isn’t that right, Sir Martian, my man?
My number one lieutenant on this space van?"
“Absolutely!” Sir Martian would reply,
“Besides, it’s your ship by-and-by.”
“It was mine, at least fo’ a while,”
TG would pop his head out with a smile,
"But I suppose I must accept it,
The fact that I could never have kept it,
Fo’ if what these fools tell me is true,
The ship must belong to yew.
And who am I to a’gue with my captain,
Fo’ if indeed this is what’s happenin–,
That we’a being inaugu’ated into you’ cuew,
Then my captain you a’e, shiny and new."
“I suppose that applies to all of us,”
Bill would add, "So let’s board this bus,
And pledge our allegiance to captain Gaby–
No ifs, buts, not even a maybe–
For if what Sir Martian says is true–
All his boasting about being a part of the crew–
Then you must be a worthy captain, Mr. Gabriel–
Thus, to serve you, I am willing and able."
"Und I second zat notion,
For I need no lotion,
To slip into ze role,
Of a part of ze whole,
Ze whole crew, zat is to say,
For just yesterday,
I remember Hubert und Sally,
Almost forming a rally,
Over ze fact zat, to you, zey are loyal,
Und ze rendezvous, zey did not vant to spoil,
Ze possible rendezvous wiz you, I mean,
For all zis while, on Saturn have zey been,
Avaiting your arrival, wiz loyalty und patience;
Und zat says somesing zat makes sense,
Vat it says, captain Gabriel,
Is zat you have formed a crew zat’s stable,
A crew zat vorks, zat functions,
A crew zat attends all your luncheons,
Or vatever it is you orchestrate,
Und zey von’t be tardy or late,
Zey vill obey your every command,
Zey vill stand by, ready at hand,
To serve you und heed to your vill,
Und zat’s somesing for vich many vould kill,
So as one leader to anozer,
You earn my respect, my brozer,
Und zerefore, I have no qualms,
Dropping my command from my palms,
My leadership role, zat is to say,
For I trust zat, come vat may,
I need not vorry about vat vill happen,
For wiz you as our fearless captain,
I know zat, in good hands, ve are,
For vezer you take us near or far,
Vezer into danger und peril,
Or into a situation more sterile,
I pledge my allegiance to you,
Captain Gaby, if into your crew,
You vill have me, faithful und true–
Oh, und Bill und TG–them too."
“I couldn’t agree mo’,
Fo’ I need not shout or ro’,”
TG would announce to the crew,
"That you command respect, it’s true,
"In fact, I am even willing to fo’go,
My voyage home, you know–
I’m willing, that is to say,
To follow you, if I may,
To the ends of the Ea’th–
The place of my birth–
Though it’s ironic, wouldn’t you say?
That from Ea’th, we’a moving away?"
“Sure,” I would concur,
"Though I understand, for sure,
That which you are sayin’–
No word games we be playin’–
And let me just say,
To all of you today,
That an honor, it would be,
To have you work with me.
So to you, I give many welcomes,
Now let’s get our bums,
Into our ship, and embark on our mission,
Our mission of waiting–ready in position."
Well, we waited and waited and waited some more,
Then we waited and wait and waited galore,
Until we heard a blast from the speakers,
That would knock you outa your sneakers:
“Rage! Rage! Rage! It gets worse with age!
Rage! Rage! Rage! I make minimum wage!”
“That’s our cue!” I’d announce,
“Onto the ignition, pounce!”
We’d rise into the air,
And at the stage I’d stare,
I’d hone my focus, that is,
And fly towards show biz.
When we’d get right above the stage,
While The Rockin’ Dead sang Rage,
We’d turn around, do a 180,
At which point, I’d see a pretty lady,
A young girl with a pretty smile,
In the first row, stretching a mile,
Reaching to the stage and screaming out:
“ I LOVE YOU!!! ”, she would shout.
But I’d distract myself from distraction,
And prepare myself for action,
Whenever that would be, that is,
Whenever would end this show biz.
It wouldn’t be long, the end,
For only in one more second,
The song would end with roaring cheers,
And that’s when I would command to my peers:
“Open the hatch and lower the ladder!”
Immediately, Icy would attend to the matter,
Being the one closest to the door,
And lower the ladder almost to the floor.
“Well,” Slate would say to the crowd,
“You’ve been awesome, tubular, and loud!
THANK YOU MERCURY!!! GOOD NIGHT!!!”
And with that, he’d climb aboard the flight.
He’d jump on the ladder, I mean,
And then climb like a mean machine;
He’d be followed by Duke and Ace,
Then Biff, almost tripping on his shoe lace.
As they’d climb,
The crowd’d cheer something sublime,
In fact, all at once, they’d cheer,
Loud enough to burst the ear:
“ENCORE!!! ENCORE!!!
WE WANT MORE!!! WE WANT MORE!!!
ENCORE!!! ENCORE!!!
WE WANT MORE!!! WE WANT MORE!!!”
Slate would hear their chants,
And looking down at them like ants,
He’d stop in his tracks,
And after clearing out his ear of wax,
He’d put his hand to his ear,
And shout to all far and near:
“WHAT?!?!” then climb some more,
Just to hear: "“ENCORE!!! ENCORE!!!”
After another step plus three,
Slate would pause again to see;
He’d put his hand to his ear again,
And shout “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!!” and then…
Then continue the climb,
While at the same time,
Hear the crowd roar:
“WE WANT MORE!!! WE WANT MORE!!!”
Slate would finally enter the ship,
Followed by Duke, Ace, and Kipp–
Biff, that is–his stage name,
For “Kipp” would never have won him fame.
But in any case, they’d be inside–
Quite a cozy place to hide–
But outside, the chants would continue,
And Slate would not forget this venue,
He’d hang is body out the door,
While the crowd kept pleading for more.
“YOU WANT SOME MORE?!?!” he’d shout,
The crowd would cheer all about,
“DO YOU WANT SOME MORE?!?!”
Slate would repeat with a roar,
“YES!!! YES!!! WE WANT MORE!!!”–
Shaking Slate to the core.
“III CAAAN’T HEEEAR YOUUUU!!!”
Would taunt Slate to the zoo,
The zoo of fans down below,
To which they’d repeat themselves so:
""ENCORE!!! ENCORE!!!
WE WANT MORE!!! WE WANT MORE!!!
“ENCORE!!! ENCORE!!!
WE WANT MORE!!! WE WANT MORE!!!”
“Well, if it’s more that you want,”
Slate would say, no longer trying to taunt,
“Then climb aboard, y’all!!
Don’t hesitate!!! Don’t stall!!!”
The crowd would shout and cheer,
And would proceed from front to rear,
To climb aboard the stage,
Still pumped from the song Rage,
They’d climb the stage and then the ladder,
Like raging lunatics or the Mad Hatter,
All three thousand of them,
From the music, their adrenaline would stem,
One by one, each fan would climb aboard,
In a seamless flow, like a giant horde,
Stuff themselves inside, they would,
Finding room any way they could,
Well, what else could I do?
Even as the captain of the crew,
I can’t just stop a mob in their tracks,
So I’d hold my breath and try to relax.
After a while, it would get rather crowded,
As if submerged in sardines, we’d be shrouded,
We’d all be squished and smushed,
We’d be cornered, we’d be pushed,
In fact, right up against the windshield,
My face, as if against a force field,
Would be pushed, would be squished,
Something I would never have wished.
But there I’d be, unable to move,
For jam packed this place would prove,
And out the window, I’d be forced to look,
And all I’d see would be a blowing Chinook,
Whistling across the barren crater,
The fans having said “See ya later,”
Before climbing aboard my ship,
Tagging along for a space trip.
Well, it would be a fair bet,
Having failed to spot a single soul yet,
That everyone would be aboard the ship,
Which would be ready, at the seams, to rip,
But just to be absolutely sure,
I’d try to get everyone to concur:
“So, everyone all aboard?”
“YES!!!” would say the horde,
“No one’s down below? Still climbing?”
“NO!!!” the crowd would answer in good timing,
“Then can someone please close the door?
Oh, but first pull the ladder off the floor.”
Some guy named Steve would do as I’d say,
He’d reel up the ladder all the way,
Then he’d try to shut the door,
But would need help from at least four,
Four other people, four other fans,
Each one tugging the other with their hands,
So as to overpower the pressure within,
Of a few thousand people, fat and thin.
But the door would finally be closed,
Leaving us not quite so hosed;
The next step would be,
To get more wiggle room, you see.
So I’d say: "Now, listen up everyone!
I know you all are having fun,
But we gotta make more space,
Especially around my cute face!
At the rear and to the right of my ship,
There’s a door whose handle you can grip,
If anyone’s close to there–
And there must be–you guys are everywhere–
Please grip the handle and open the door,
But be careful: you’ll be thrown to the floor,
So brace yourselves, boys and girls,
For when the pressure in this room hurls,
You guys through the open door–
Well… need I say more?
But don’t be afraid, don’t be shy,
Anything’s better than this, by-and-by."
Well, someone would have obeyed my command,
Because, once again, I’d be able to stand,
I’d be able to stand on solid ground,
I’d even be able to move around.
A lot more sparse, it’d seem to be,
Only a few people, including me,
Would be left standing around the room,
And in the next, the rest would loom.
So that’s where all 3,000 would be–
In the back room, you see–
Well, it’d be more like 2,932,
For up here with me and my crew,
Would be the rest, the other 68,
Not including Biff, Ace, Duke, or Slate–
No, not them, The Rockin’ Dead,
They’d be here–I’d count each head.
Now, you know how I said,
If I recall with my head,
That my crew was up here with me?
Well, I lied, for you see…
Icy, the Martian queen,
And Immanuel, that silly bean,
Would be digging themselves out,
From the mounds of fans, no doubt.
After poking their heads out,
And taking a breath deep enough to shout,
They’d pull out the rest of them,
Like carrots held at the stem,
Being pulled from the moist dirt,
Thank goodness no one would be hurt!
Icy and Immanuel would simply resume,
Their membership in my crew, here in this room,
“Heh-heh… raaaad,”
Would say Slate looking not so bad,
Looking at Icy with a smile,
Making her blush for a short while,
But she’d shy away coyly,
And not because his hair was oily;
Immanuel, who beside her would stand,
Would, on the other hand,
Just give Slate a disgruntled look,
Then would, like a fishing hook,
Stick his nose upward in the air,
“Hmm” he’d say in a snobby flare.
“So you must be the captain dude,”
Slate would say to me, kinda rude,
"Allow me to introduce myself,
M’name’s Slate, little elf,
And that there’s my main man Ace,
Who’s totally wicked on the base,
And the keyboardist over there,
The one with the wily hair,
That’s Duke, keyboardist extraordinaire,
(He also runs a shop: The Scrumptious Donaire),
And finally, behind me is Biff, our drummist;
Don’t mistake him for the dumbest,
For he’s totally smart and stuff,
And if that’s not enough,
He’s awesome at figure skating,
Which is way I’m totally debating,
Turning our gig into an ice show–
Seriously, man! Totally, like, y’know–
Wouldn’t that be wicked? Wouldn’it?
That’s what should happen, shouldn’it?"
After taking some time to think,
I concluded that would stink,
But I didn’t say it out loud,
Instead, I said all proud:
"Welcome aboard, make yourselves comfy,
I hope tight spaces don’t make you grumpy,
But I’m sure we can find room,
For you and your band to loom,
But why don’t I start,
For my own part,
With my own intro–
It’s well rehearsed, you know:
Greetings! 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–
Some of which are absent, like Sally and Hubert,
But as for the one’s that are here,
The ones you can see so very clear,
This is Teddy and there’s Immanuel, and that,
Dudes, is Icy, Queen of Mars–isn’t that phat?!
The dogs are in the back room,
But as a formality, I will resume,
This well rehearsed introduction,
For as the captain, it is my function.
From left to right, and front to back,
From top to bottom, from white to black,
Or whatever order they’re in,
Even if that’s fat to thin,
There’s Buster, Rex, Spot, and Puddles,
And finally Sparky who likes cuddles.
Oh, and I almost forgot,
With them is Franky, who’s caught,
Making snacks with his hot dog stand,
Which the doggies eat from his hand.
And that’s Sir Martian–betcha didn’t know that–
But these 3 behind me are where it’s really at:"
“Hey!” Sir Martian would shout,
Feeling verklempt from the clout.
“That there’s Gurtrude and this is Bill,
And this here is TG if you will.
That’s short for Travelocity Gnome–
The very one who roams far from home.”
"Hey dudes and dudettes,
Hope there’s no regrets,
'Bout us boarding y’r ship.
For letting us, you sure’re hip.
Now though we’d love to discuss,
You’ll have to excuse us,
For we’ve got an encore to perform,
For the fans back there, a wrestles swarm."
And with that, the Rockin’ Dead,
Would retire to the back room instead,
Instead of staying here to chit chat,
For the fans would be where it’s at.
Behind them, they’d close the door,
In order to play their encore,
Which we’d feel through the floor,
And pretty soon, we’d hear them roar:
“Rage! Rage! Rage! It gets worse with age!
Rage! Rage! Rage! I make minimum wage!”
Though it’d be loud, it’d be tolerable,
And therefore wouldn’t be any trouble.
We’d be able to focus on our mission,
Which was to go fishin’,
Fishin’ for Hubert and Sally,
On Saturn–no time to dilly-dally.