Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Elevate form over function to get at less easily articulable truths.

Re: Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Postby gib » Sun May 14, 2017 4:51 am

Sally picked up the gnome in frustration:
'Well, guess what?! We're not on vacation!
And I have a right mind to welt you again,
On the other side of that there noggin, and then--'

'Patience, my dear, patience,' Gurtrude budded in,
Gently taking the gnome from Sally with a grin,
Then proceeded to squeeze him some more,
And shook him frantically to the core:

'I-I-I-I w-w-w-would,' TG managed to get out.
Having made him speak, Gurtrude stopped and didn't shout,

'But I need yo' help--
Please don't shout, please don't yelp--
Fo' I think if we worked togethe',
We can figu'e out whethe',

My ship is over the'e,
Or pe'haps the'e, that's whe'e,
Or maybe the'e--yes, it's the same direction,
But fu'the' out, a much fa'the' projection.

The point is, I'm sure we can figu'e it out,
But we have to work togethe'--not scream and shout--
I have to count on you, as you count on me.
Fo' as Sally said, we're in the same boat, you see.'

'The gnome's right,' I concluded,
'No sense in sitting around feeling brooded,
We have to think of a way,
Hopefully before the end of the day,

Of finding out where TG's ship is parked--'
When suddenly, in my mind, an idea was sparked,
'Say, Mr. Gnome, but didn't you say,
That in your mind, there to stay,

Is the identity of your kidnapper, you know--
Namely, the carny we met a moment ago--
Well, if this is true, as you say,
Then that carny knows--he just may--

That is, where your ship is parked--
He must, of course, for it is marked,
Right in his memory of snatching you,
For if what you say is true,

He must remember where you were,
When he snatched you up, even in a blur,
And he must remember how he got back:
For those memories mark out our track.'

'Are you suggesting,' Bill piped in,
'That we just need to ask where he's been?
Where the carny was lurking about?
When, during a break, he found you out?'

Bill pointed to TG, and looked at him,
'Well, I suppose,' said the gnome looking grim,
'That could be a cou'se of action,
Thew I doubt it will bring much satisfaction.

I doubt he'd tell us even if we begged,
Fo' I think I have him fai'ly well pegged:
I predict he'll ask for a few bucks more,
Before he divulges information galore.'

'And I got no more bucks,' said Sir Marsian,
'Spent all 9 on a game that was fun,
Out of my pocket, they were drawn,
And now they're all but gone.'

'Enough wiz ze speculation!'
Gurtrude explained with elation,
'Vy don't ve just go and ask?
Is zat such a hard task?

If he vishes to charge us money,
Ve vill simply say: "Look honey,
Ve ain't got no more cash,
Ve spent the last of our private stash."

Und zen zat vill be it,
Ve vill just have to sit,
Back at square one, wouldn't you agree?
Nossing gained, nossing lost, you see.'

'Gurtrude's right,' I concluded,
'Let's go ask the carny to whom I alluded,
And get a simple yay or nay,
And that will be the end of the day.'

And so at the drop of a hat,
We did just that--
We went and asked that carny,
Trying our best to be blarney.

But just as TG predicted,
From his stand, we were evicted,
For he did ask for more money,
And we did say 'Look honey...'

But it was in vain,
For it was such a pain,
To get information out of him;
It sure didn't come at a whim.

Can you believe how much he wanted?
The hole in my wallet would leave me haunted!
Twenty bucks is what he asked for,
I had twenty cents, but no more.

In fact, even all together,
Despite the breezy weather,
We had diddly squat--
A wealthy bunch, we were not.

So we walked away,
And then by a clown did stay,
We all sat in the lotus position,
In a circle on the ground--as though fishin',

Though without rods, or any bate--
No, instead we sat in a circle and did wait--
We waiting for another great idea--
An idea by which we could say 'see ya,'

To Saturn and leave this place,
For the first idea was a disgrace--
The idea, that is, of asking the carny--
Even though we used so much blarney!

But it was a disgrace, a failure,
Despite that we put into it much valor,
But we just didn't have the money,
And could do nothing but retreat like a bunny,

So that plan failed,
And from it we were derailed.
But here in a circle, we were sitting,
On dirty grounds--not so comforting--

But sitting nonetheless in thought,
As meticulously as a robot,
Like searching an encyclopedia,
Searching for the next best idea,

About how to get ourselves off Saturn,
And then suddenly, our ears did burn,
For a loud sound blasted from some speakers,
And then I saw: it was from a man in sneakers!

'Step right up! Step right up!'
Said the man, our thoughts he did interrupt,
'Come all ye who dare to venture,
For I reveal my secret clincher:

I reveal... "The Time Machine,"
Polished up and squeaky clean.
For once you step inside,
You're going for a wild ride.

It spins you 'round and 'round,
Where you'll stop, you won't be found,
For once you reach 88 miles per hour,
You'll disappear, plucked like a flower,

Plucked from here, that is to say,
Plucked from now, from this very day,
For you will no longer be here,
Not in this place, not in this year,

For a reason is it called "The Time Machine,"
Running on fiery coal and steam,
For at 88 miles per hour,
The spacetime continuum will devour,

Both you and your friends,
And send you around the bends,
The bends of time, that is,
For that's how it works in this biz,

The biz of time travel, I mean,
For you may be sent back to 1919,
If that is your choice,
But you do have a voice,

So use that voice to let me know,
To what year you wish to go,
Just give me the time and date,
And I'll make sure you're not late.'

'Vell,' Gurtrude said, 'Zat vaz rude;
Interruptions put me in a bad mood;
But now zat it is over, let's resume,
Solving ze problem zat over us does loom.'

'Now, wait a minute, Gurtrude,'
I said, 'the problem to which you allude,
May just be solved by that very interruption,
For if we assume no corruption,

Within that man's words--
That is, if like the birds--
He really can fly us back in time,
And he can stop us right on a dime,

At exactly the minute we choose,
Then certainly, we can't lose--
For you see, all we have to do,
Is travel back a day or two,

And then go back to the carny's stand,
And wait--which may be boring and bland--
For it won't be exciting or a thrill--
But we wait--we wait and wait--until...

The moment is at hand--
That is, when he leaves his stand--
And that's when we have to be clever,
For we must follow him to wherever--

Wherever it was that he went,
Wherever it was that he smelt your sent,
Mr. Gnome, where he knocked you out,
And snatched you up, the obnoxious lout.

For if what you say is true--
Like one and one being two--
Then wherever the carny leads us,
Your ship is parked, like a bus.'

'My wo'd, young chap,' TG said,
'That's brilliant, yew sma'ty head,
Fo' you've even got it spot on,
It was about tew days o' one,

When I, as a one man crew,
Flew in from yande' blue,
And landed in a dark and shady place--
From which I'm still distraught--look at my face!!!'

'Exactly!', I exclaimed, 'A day or two!
For all we need to do,
Is hop aboard that "Time Machine",
And force time to wean--

Stop time, that is, from moving forward,
And the past, force us to move toward,
And stop at that specific time,
Right before the carny committed his crime.'

'I must admit, Hubert darling,'
Gurtruded replied, sounding charming,
'Zat your plan is wors considering;
Let's follow it instead of bickering.'

So we did--consider it, that is to say,
Not bicker over it, not on this day,
And all our considerations lasted a second,
For just doing it now was right, as Gurtrude reckoned.

We stepped right up to the Time Machine,
Just as the carny told us to, I mean,
And after waiting half an hour in line,
After listening to several kids wine,

About being hot, or bored, or sick,
Or the awful taste of a lollipop they did lick,
It was our turn to climb aboard,
Finally!--Thank the Lord!

'Howdie strangers, Fred's the name,
And travellin' through time's my game,'
Said the time travelling carny named Fred,
His neck, from the sun, burnt red,

'So what time,' Fred asked,
'Is it my privileged task,
To send you guys back to,
1800 perhaps, or maybe 1992?'

'No sir, my friend,' I did reply,
'We want to go back to a time very nigh,
Retrospectively, that is to say,
That is, two, or even just one day.'

'Back in time a couple days?
That I can do, without even a haze,
That is, without a mental blur,
For you'll know when you're there for sure.

For I have perfected my technology,
I've surpassed even Einstein's psychology,
That is, his intelligence,
For I'm smarter than him, hence:

The Time Machine, my latest invention,
Polished up with a shiny complexion,
For Einstein could never have thought,
Of what, to the world, I have brought.

Einstein knew that time could bend,
Stretch, compress, and rend,
But was it possible? Time travel?
He knew that the future could unravel,

For time can be sped up, he knew,
From one o'clock to a quarter to two,
You can get in a matter of seconds,
That's right, seconds, not minutes, as I reckons.

For to get from one to two,
Takes a full hour, it's true,
But what Einstein figured out,
Is that, without a doubt,

The faster you go, the faster time goes too,
It speeds up, like a bullet out of the blue,
So if you go fast enough, then even you,
In only seconds, can get to a quarter to two.

But that's not the question,
For if I may make a suggestion,
I'd say that travel to the past,
Is finally possible, at last.

Thanks to my latest invention, I say,
For it is the leading proof today,
That I figured out what Einstein could not,
Though a genius he was in thought:

How to travel to the past,
How to make a single day last,
If one were only to repeat it,
Over and over--who could beat it?

Who could top my invention, that is,
For a leader am I in this time travel biz,
Surpassing Einstein and Steven Hawking,
Even the invention of the nylon stocking!'

'Well,' I said with a dose of skepticism,
'I know physics, Einstein and Time-Travelism.
And what you say defies all logic,
In fact, it sounds like magic,

For there was a reason Einstein did doubt,
That which you praise and shout,
For if the faster you go,
The more time goes not so slow,

Then how is it possible, good sir,
To reverse time in a blur?
For even when standing still,
Time moves forward, if you will.'

'Not at 88 miles per hour,' Fred replied,
'For this is my secret, what I have spied,
For under a microscope did I view time,
And what did I discover, friends of mine?

An infinitesimal hole, a rip in time,
Too small to see with your eyes or mine,
But it's there, my friends, trust me;
Without a microscope, your notice will it flee,

And if you accelerate past it--
88 miles per hour that is--even a bit--
Say, for example, from 87 to 89,
Being careful not to get a speeding fine,

You'll skip right over it,
Like a pot hole that on the road does sit,
But if you stop precisely on that spot,
Staying at 88 miles per hour and budging not,

Then my friends, the magic will happen,
For you'll find, even if rappin',
Along with your favorite hip hop tune,
That very quickly, very soon,

Time will reverse, time will go back--
That's the point at which time does lack--
That is, doesn't exist, the rip I spoke of,
The hole so infinitesimal, fleeting like a dove.

But trust me my friends,
Once around the bends,
Does my invention take you,
Round and round 'till you turn blue,

You will hit 88 miles per hour,
And that's when it will devour,
You and everyone else aboard,
Like a heavy eater who does hoard,

All the food at the buffet,
Except that on this day,
You're the buffet and time is the eater,
Don't resist, for you can't beat 'er.

Just let the rip suck you in,
And you'll go where you've already been--
Some time before, that is,
For that's the way in this time travelin' biz.'

'Oh, what are we waiting for,' Sally urged,
'On one carny we've already splurged,
Why not on this one too?
Let's travel back a day or two!'

'Splurge indeed we did,' Bill inserted,
'On that carny with which we flirted,
But with what are we going splurge now,
For if this is a free ride, I'll say WOW!'

'Free? Are you kidding?' said the carny,
'If this ride's free, then my names Barney,
And since it's not, then by Modus Tollens,
We can conclude this ride would've been stolens.

That is, you will have ripped me off,
Gettin' a free ride without having did cough--
Cough up the cash, that is,
To earn a seat on this ride--like, gee whiz!'

'Well, we certainly don't want to rip you off,'
I said, clearing my throat with a cough,
'But we've got nothing to our name,
We've got neither fortune nor fame.

But maybe we can make an arrangement--
Something to commence this engagement--
This engagement of time travel, I mean;
Let's work out something like a team.'

An awkward silence followed that point,
Making me wish we could escape the joint,
For none of us could think of an arrangement,
To commence, like I said, this engagement.

I thought, Sally thought, and we all thought,
Even the carny thought... we thought a lot.
But none of us could think of anything,
No ideas to the table could we bring.

'Oh, fiddle-dee-bugs!' TG did exclaim,
'To give this up would be such a shame--
This comb, I mean, so exquisite,
But maybe I could part with it.'

'Well,' Fred the carny did reply,
'Allow me to inspect it with my eye,
For if it's exquisite as you say,
I may consider it your due pay.'

So TG handed over the comb,
Looking rather sad for a gnome,
And indeed Fred inspected it,
While in his chair he did sit.

'It's not so exquisite, friends of mine,'s absolutely and utterly divine!
Where did you get such a fine gem,
Are there more? Where can I get them?'

'I got it from my mom,' Sir Martian said,
'Works quite well with the hair on my head;
I think she got it at Wall Mart,
You can try there for a start.'

'Indeed I may,' Fred did say,
'But this comb will suffice for today.
You may hop aboard this ride--
Don't be shy--step inside!'

So step inside we did,
To see what secrets it hid;
It was like a flying saucer,
Round on all sides of 'er,

But flat on top and bottom;
Colored like the leaves of Autumn,
It was splashed from head to toe,
With red, orange, and yellow.

The inside wasn't much different,
Inside The Time Machine, where we went,
For there too was a mix of colors,
Red, orange, yellow, and many others.

Against the walls, round like a ring,
Were straps which, onto us, would cling,
For it was clear from the looks of it,
That that's where we were to sit.

Well, not sit--we'd have to stand,
We'd lean back against the wall and,
Buckle our seat belts, strap ourselves in,
And soon after, we started to spin.

It was rather slow at first,
Which would make this ride the worst,
If that's the fastest it ever got,
But was it the fastest? I think not.

For we could feel the acceleration,
And I could see the anticipation,
In the kids' eyes--that is, other riders--
Anticipation and fear--like they'd seen spiders;

But it's a fun kind of fear,
The kind that makes you scream and cheer,
The kind that feels more like a rush,
Like holding someone on whom you have a crush,

While watching a scary movie on a date--
That's something you can't really hate--
For when the show's over at a quarter to ten,
You kiss her goodbye and say 'Let's do it again.'

Indeed the ride sped up,
With his hands, Sir Marsian formed a cup,
And with them, covered his face,
Wishing he could get out of this place,

TG too, sitting in Sir Martian's back pack,
For it felt rather squishy to be in that sack,
Not only pressed up against the wall,
But squished by Sir Martian and all.

But most everyone else was having fun,
I certainly wasn't the only one,
But soon the ride got intense,
And it kept me in suspense,

For I knew we were going fast,
But how much longer would this ride last,
Before 88 miles per hour was reached,
For I couldn't tell which speeds we'd breached,

What speed were we at? What mile per hour?
We must have used up enough power,
To be going at least 44,
And probably a little bit more.

For I could feel the inertia on my back,
And my vision almost went black,
From the blood rushing from my head,
I thought I might pass out, as if dead.

But the deafening screams from the other kids,
Kept me awake, from closing my eye lids.
A couple looked ill, and one barfed,
Cotton candy which he previously snarfed.

And soon it happened, at least I thought,
For in some strange vortex were we caught--
A swirl in space, I mean to say,
As if space and time gave way,

To some kind of warping,
A kind of bending and forking,
For things seemed to twist and stretch,
Like the soul of a horrible wretch,

People's faces seemed long and thin,
I couldn't tell a frown from a grin,
The whole room was like a hall of mirrors,
The kind that distort your mouth, nose, and ears.

And just as I no longer recognized the place,
Just as I couldn't make out a single face,
Just as I thought I was going crazy,
The ride started to become lazy--

That is, it began to slow down,
And I slowly came back from crazy town,
I slowly regained my senses,
And began to let down my defenses,

For I started to feel relaxed,
Our speed no longer waxed,
It now began to wane,
And soon, so did my pain.

The room was still spinning,
And my ears started ringing,
When the ride finally stopped,
And off it, we could have hopped,

Except I just couldn't tell,
At least, not very well,
Whether the spinning was the ride,
Or my dizzy head--so I sighed.

But then the door did open--
A sight for which I was hopin'--
And in poked a familiar head--
The one belonging to Fred.

'Two days ago!' he said to the crowd,
'That's us!' Sally said out loud,
'Let's get off, gang,
Let's not stay here and hang!'

We unbuckled ourselves, we did,
And tried to stand like a 1 year old kid,
Wobbling a bit and almost falling,
But ardently following Fred's calling.

Before we stepped off, I looked back,
Into the room almost pitch black,
And I noticed no one else getting off,
To which I almost did scoff.

'What? Did y'all pay for two rides?'
I questioned the people on all sides,
'Na,' said an old woman near the door,
'We're just going back to 1934.'
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Re: Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Postby gib » Mon May 22, 2017 9:22 am

With that, we left the ride behind,
And then, of course, tried to find,
The other carny--not Fred--
The one who sold us TG instead.

Which really wasn't hard,
For the carny was only a yard,
A yard away, that is... well maybe two--
...Ok, a bit more than two, it's true.

The point is, we knew where to go,
And we certainly didn't go slow,
For we had no idea, none at all,
The time we had to reach the carny's stall.

On the way there, Sally said:
'Uh, Hubert, I hate to worry your head,
But according to my watch,
That machine should be bumped a notch,

For I don't think it's two days ago,
More like two hours--maybe it's slow--
The Time Machine, that is to say,
For it's certainly been less than a day,

Since we boarded that ride,
And that's a fact my watch doesn't hide,
So I don't think it's up to snuff,
Even though he gave it a lot of buff,

Fred, that is, and the Time Machine,
Is the ride which I mean--
Certainly, it is a technological wonder,
But I think Fred did blunder.'

'You mean to say,' Sir Martian said,
'That that there carny named Fred,
Sent us back only two hours ago?
Not the two days we ordered-to-go?'

'Yep, that's exactly what I'm saying,'
Said Sally, in the breeze, her hair swaying.
'Let's not worry about that now,'
I said, 'Let's just think about how,

How to accomplish our mission,
For this ain't no time to go fishin',
Fishin' for clues on what went wrong,
Or what time it is--that old song.'

'But Hubert,' Sally protested,
'If you listened to what I suggested,
You may realize we're likely too late?
The carny probably already snatched the bate;

TG, I mean to say,
Snatched him up earlier today.'
'No problem,' I replied to Sally,
'Let's keep going down this alley,

Once we're at the carny stand,
We'll glance at the wall and,
And if we see TG hanging there,
We'll know Fred didn't take care,

To calibrate his machine,
To tune it up, I mean.
If that's the case,
We'll return to that place,

Where the Time Machine does sit,
And ask Fred to send us back a bit,
A bit more, that is to say,
Back 22 hours ago, plus a day.

We'll do this over and over again,
Until Fred gets it right, and then,
And then we'll be there, two days ago,
When hopefully, on the wall, TG won't show.

All this, he should do for free,
For we paid him that comb, you see,
So he still owes us 22 hours and a day,
At least, that's what I'll say.'

'By the looks of it, Hubert,'
Bill spoke up and did assert,
'That 2 hours was just enough,
For if you look amongst all that stuff,'

Bill pointed to the wall,
The one lining the carny's stall,
The very carny we were looking for,
For we had arrived at his door.

Well, almost, that is to say,
We were still a few yards away,
But close enough to be in sight,
If only he looked a bit to his right.

Indeed the wall to which Bill pointed,
Was, with prizes galore, anointed,
But among all the cluttered mess,
Something was missing, I must confess.

'You won't see TG,' Bill continued,
'For unless I've misconstrued,
What it means that he's not there,
I'd say 2 hours was rather fair.'

'Indeed, Bill, indeed,' I replied,
'Now is the time for us to hide;
Let's all jump into that dumpster there,
And from that spot, at the Carny, stare.'

'Uh, Hubert,' to me Sally did appeal,
'I hate to be the squeaky wheel,
But I've had about as much as I can take,
Of stewing in garbage, for Heaven's sake.'

'I know, my dear,' I sympathized,
And then, with respect, emphasized:
'But it's the best spot to hide,
For who would suspect that inside,

A garbage bin of all places,
Were six people's faces,
All peering over the rim,
In order to spy on him.'

I pointed to our good friend,
The carny who did tend,
To kidnap helpless gnomes,
Just trying to get back to their homes.

'Trust me, darling,' Gurtrude reassured,
'Alzough ze smell may be quite absurd,
Garbage can grow on you--
Mold quite literally, it's true.'

With a sullen look on her face,
Sally gave in and reluctantly did embrace,
The prospect of stewing in more smelly debris,
With Bill, Gurtrude, Sir Martian, TG and me.

So without further ado,
We plunged into slimy goo--
We leaped into the dumpster, that is,
The slime, I could tell, was cheese whiz.

But we didn't let that bother us,
We kept low and didn't swear or cuss,
About the smells which did appall,
In fact, we didn't speak at all,

So as not to draw attention,
To our attempts at intervention--
Intervention into the carny's affairs,
Into TG's ship and its about-wheres.

We just peered over the edge,
As if behind a leafy hedge,
And watched our friend the carny,
Enticing customers with a stuffed Barney,

A purple dinosaur, that is to say,
Calling out to them: 'Hey!
This here dino could be yours,
If ya' wins enough scores,

Alls ya have to do,
Is play my games, one or two,
I gots several from which to choose,
With variety like this, ya can't lose!

Throw a ball at a target,
Or if yer like my sister Margaret,
It might be ring toss ya prefer,
That game's a thrill fur sure.

But if not, I got plen'y more,
Maybe horse shoes will wins ya a high score,
Or maybe darts is yer game,
To me it's all the same.'

On that note, he ceased to preach,
Realizing no one cared for his speech,
For on def ears did his words spill,
And so to continue, he didn't have the will.

'Time fur a break, I guess,' he said to himself,
Putting the purple dino back on the shelf.
In the back corner, he opened a door,
And then we couldn't see him no more,

For he passed through only to disappear,
Closed the door, he did, behind his rear.
I took that as our cue to move,
To hop out of our dumpster groove.

'He's on the move,' I said,
'Code red!' said Sir Martian, 'Code red!'
'Code what?' inquired Bill,
'Code red! Don't sit still!

We gotta move! We gotta go!
Code red means don't go slow!
I heard it in a movie once,
So obviously I'm not a dunce.'

Bill just shook his head,
And didn't worry about the code red,
He leaped up, like the rest of us,
And dismounted the dumpster like a bus,

Sally cursed and she swore,
Because of the banana peels galore,
That covered her head to foot--
On this day, she was certainly hard put.

But she flicked them to the ground,
By a groundskeeper to be found,
And never thought of them again,
To which she said to herself: 'Amen!'

On our way, I gave clear instruction:
'Of this, let's not make a production,
Let's keep things simple and under control,
Let's not dig ourselves into a hole.

On the carny, we need to spy,
On him, we need to keep a watchful eye.
What I suggest is that we climb up there--
Onto the roof of his carny stand is where.

We'll climb atop and look behind it,
Crouching low so he doesn't find it--
That is, the spot where we're at--
But we have to lie low, lie flat,

For if he sees us at all,
Our whole operation will fall,
So always remember to lie low,
And for goodness sake, don't go slow.'

We dashed towards the carny stand,
Forgetting, of course, to have planned,
How to get up there, onto the roof,
Which, on our part, was a major goof.

But we tried anyway we could,
In fact, we tried every way, understood?
No? Well, let me explain, noble captain,
What, at that point, was happenin':

Not knowing how to climb the carny stand,
We took separate measures into hand;
Sir Martian figured, on his part,
That the back wall was where to start.

So he just started to climb,
Taking one step at a time,
One step onto a stuffy or a prize,
To the poor carny's demise,

For in the sport of rock climbing,
One ought not to grip on something,
Like a prize or a stuffy colored blue,
For those don't typically stick like glue,

Thus, Sir Martian made a mess,
Dropping stuffies due to the stress,
From the weight he placed on them,
Not to mention the dirt he got into the hem.

Sally, on the other hand,
Grabbed a ladder from the next stand,
But not without that stand's carny,
Noticing and getting alarm-y:

'Hey, you there!' he shouted in alarm,
But Sally, with the ladder under her arm,
Ran back to the original stand,
And onto the ground, the ladder did land,

She set it up, that is to say,
Leaned it against the wall, there to stay,
And, as fast as she could, begin to climb,
For she was definitely pressed for time,

As for me and my situation,
With the others, I began communication--
I mean, With Gurtrude and Bill,
Immediately, my words began to spill:

'Ok, here's a plan that's fool proof:
We need to get up onto that there roof,
So what I propose is this,
My dear brother and sis':

Gurtrude, onto my shoulders you will climb,
Then we'll be in a position that's prime,
For then you, Bill, will be able,
To climb a human tower that's stable--

Stable enough for you to reach,
The top, which will be a peach,
Then you can grab Gurtrude,
And hopefully without being rude,

She will grab onto me with each leg,
Hopefully without crushing me like an egg,
And with your strength, Bill my friend,
You will lift us, connected end to end.'

'Lift you both? Are you kidding?
I'll be glad to do your bidding,
But I gotta say, I ain't that strong.'
Bill warned, his face looking long.

I replied: 'You underestimate yourself,
Just climb up there like onto a shelf,
And pull with everything you've got,
All I ask is that you give it a shot.'

So Bill, with reluctance, agreed,
And with this plan, we did proceed,
Onto me, Gurtrude did climb,
Taking one step at a time,

And once she parked her derriere,
Onto my shoulders and behind my hair,
It was Bill's turn to climb this human tower,
Using all his strength, all his power.

Meanwhile, Sir Martian was stuck,
Having no where to go, he was out of luck,
For there was this barrier called a ceiling,
To which he clung with an apprehensive feeling,

There he dangled not knowing,
Which way he should be going,
For there was no hole through which,
He could climb through and ditch,

All these stuffies and carny prizes,
Those furry creatures everyone despises,
Especially the gigantic teddy bear,
Which got caught on his shoe down there.

He certainly couldn't go back,
For all the stuffies that, as if on a rack,
Hung there, helping him to climb,
Were now on the floor, covered in grime.

And letting go was out of the question,
Dropping down, that is, making connection,
With the ground below his feet,
For it was made of hard concrete,

And would certainly hurt his bum,
If on it he landed--it'd hurt and then some--
So he had no choice but to just hang,
With nowhere to go--oh dang!

'Way to gew, Einstein,' TG taunted,
The last thing Sir Martian wanted,
'What are you going to dew now?
Rip threw the roof somehow?'

As for Sally, she barely made it to the top,
When the carny caught her like a cop,
Or rather, he caught the ladder,
And pulled it out from under her.

But lucky for her, she managed to grip,
Onto the tent--which caused it to rip--
You see, out of nylon was the carny's stand made,
Which meant it would rip as if cut by a blade,

If stretched too hard or put under pressure,
And Sally's weight sure was a stressor,
So it ripped, at least a little bit,
Making Sally shout: 'Oh, @#$@!'

She tried climbing higher, but to no avail,
For the more she climbed, the more like hail,
Sally fell, due to the fact,
That integrity the tent material lacked--

For the more she climbed, the more it ripped,
And the more strongly she gripped,
For it was ripping right along the seam,
That is, along the horizontal beam,

The one that connected the ceiling,
With the wall that was pealing,
And the more Sally climbed,
The closer she got to the stand's behind,

For that was the direction,
In which the rip's projection,
Was heading under Sally's weight,
And before it was too late,

The ripping stopped,
Just before it dropped,
Sally to the ground,
For looking up, she found,

That the rip had reached the end,
Of the carny stand--as far as it did extend,
Where it couldn't tear no more,
And downward, Sally no longer did pour,

So with a final surge of effort,
Her strength, Sally did assert,
And climbed onto the roof;
Of her determination, this was proof.

Bill had managed, meanwhile,
To pull Gurtrude up with style,
And with both of them on the roof,
They could pull me without a goof.

But as soon as they tugged,
They were de-rugged,
That is, the rug was pulled from under them:
The tent, once again, ripped at the hem.

Bill and Gurtrude fell through the hole,
Leaving me hanging like a marionette doll,
All of us, in fact,
Were left hanging in the act,

We hung from the beam,
Quite similar, it would seem,
To the beam along which,
Sally's rip one would have to stitch,

Except our rip was only so wide,
Wide enough, I must confide,
For Gurtrude and Bill to fall through,
But not much wider than that two-man crew.

So there we were left hanging,
Like a bunch of buffoons dangling,
Me facing inside the tent,
Causing the beam to become bent,

And Gurtrude and Bill facing outward,
Contemplating the dilemma we had incurred,
Never had we been so close to each other,
Like triplettes in the womb of a mother,

Cheek to cheek and noses almost touching,
The awkward silence made us start blushing,
But by a familiar voice, the silence broke,
A voice belonging to a familiar bloke:

'Hubert? Bill? Gurtrude?' said Sir Martian,
Wondering if this was a visual distortion,
'Sir Martian?' I questioned right back,
'What are you doing hanging there so slack?'

'What am I doing hanging there?
What about you, you big brown bear?'
'I'm not a bear, you silly gorilla?
Quit calling me names, will ya'?

'Sorry Hubert,' Sir Martian continued,
'It's not like me to be so rude,
But I'm really annoyed, you see,
For I'm stuck here and I have to pee.'

'Well, just hold it a bit longer,
Wait for me to get a little stronger,
For I think I can muster the strength,
To climb higher at any length.

You just wait there for a minute or two,
And I'll climb to the roof and get to you,
We all will--me, Gurtrude, and Bill--
We'll finish this maneuver, we will.'

So I maneuvered myself along the beam,
Moving sideways, like a crab it did seem,
I got to the corner of the carny stand,
And onto the next beam I secured my hand,

That is, the beam aligning the side wall,
Aligning the top of this carny stall,
The one 90 degrees from the front,
It was really quite the stunt.

As I moved my way to the rear,
Bill and Gurtrude followed near,
Pulling the exact same stunt,
With moans, sighs, and a grunt.

Once we were there, at the back,
Having tried hard not to crack,
The beam along which we clung,
Ourselves we, onto the roof, flung--

Well, flung us probably the wrong word--
It's not like we had the agility of a bird--
But we did manage to get there,
Without climbing a single stair.

I climbed onto yet another beam,
This time trying not to rip the seam,
That is, the fabric the tent was made of,
Straddling myself upon it high above,

Above the carny whom I could see,
The carny who was now right below me,
I kept low, straddled as I said,
As though snug in a comfy bed,

Except comfy, this bed was anything but,
In fact, it felt like being stuck in a rut,
Being straddled along this beam,
The one along the rear with my team,

That is, Gurtrude and Bill, you see--
For they followed close behind me--
All of us lying low,
Straddled along this beam so,

Along which our bellies rested,
And our arms and legs were invested,
Gripping on tight, that is to say,
Avoiding rips and tears in this way.

Ahead of us, Sally I saw,
Which certainly put me in awe,
For I noticed she had in mind,
The same strategy, the same kind,

That of straddling the beam,
The very same one it would seem,
That is, the one along the rear,
Which is why we met up with her here.

We met in the middle, that is to say,
'Greetings,' she said, 'How are you, today?'
'I'm fine, my dear,' said I,
'What brings you here, by and by?'

'Oh, you know, Hubert,'
Sally did assert,
'This was your plan!
Don't you know that, man?'
My thoughts | My art | My music | My poetry

I don't care about income inequality, I care about the idea that there are people who have actual obstacles to success.
-Ben Shapiro

...we hear about the wage gap, the idea that women are paid significantly less than men--seventy two cents on the dollar--that's absolute shear nonesense--it is absolute nonesense--in 147 out of 150 of the biggest cities in America, women make 8% more money than men do in their peer group. That wage gap is growing, not shrinking.
-Ben Shapiro

We're in a situation now where students can go to university and come out dumber than when they went in. They are infantalized by safe space and trigger warning culture, the idea that interogating a new idea, coming into contact with a school of thought or a person that doesn't conform to your prejudices is somehow problematic, that it gives rise to trauma.
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Re: Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Postby gib » Mon Jun 12, 2017 5:25 am

So we peered over--I felt like a spy--
Looking down upon the carny guy,
Who was leaning against the stand,
With a stick of gum in his hand,

When suddenly, out of the blue,
Down came our ship--it's true--
That's right, our ship, I said,
Not the one belonging to Fred.

The one we crashed into Jupiter, I mean,
Not the doggy ship all covered in bling,
I mean, the one you're riding,
Through space, that is--gliding.

No, it was the one from Jupiter,
And we weren't stupid--not even stupider--
For if you think for a bit,
You'd realize, we should expect it,

For didn't TG say earlier on,
That he found our ship, long gone?
That he found it in the doggy shack--
Crashed!--as though from an attack?

Of course he did, I'm telling the story,
So trust me, he did, don't you worry.
So we kind of expected it all along,
And I knew I wasn't wrong,

To have put two and two together,
Right under this windy weather,
The weather the ship created,
As it landed here, it's travels abated.

I put two and two together, I say,
And realized that landing in this bay,
Behind the carny tent, I mean,
Was TG himself, arriving on the scene.

We watched quietly from the roof,
So did the carny, no longer so aloof.
The ship landed only yards away,
A look of surprise, his face did betray.

The roar of the engines grew quiet,
Like a crowd that ceased to riot,
The carny stood their, curious to see,
What surprises might, from the ship, break free.

Then on the underside of the ship,
The ramp lowered--a long strip,
Along which TG was seen,
Seen to be walking, I mean.

TG from the past, that would be,
Not the one from the present, you see,
For that TG, do remember,
Was snug and warm, like a burning ember,

Snug inside Sir Martian's back pack--
That is to say, like inside a warm sack--
Hanging from the ceiling, do recall,
With Sir Martian, stuck there and all.

At this point in time, however,
We forgot about that, but whatever,
For focused, our attention now was,
On TG from the past because,

Because we wanted to know,
How this would all go,
This deal with the carny and TG,
So we watched with intensity.

TG didn't see the carny at first;
The angle at which he parked was the worst,
For away from him, he was facing,
And between them, there was much spacing,

But as soon as the carny figured out,
What, out of the ship, did just now spout,
He realized this was a golden opportunity,
To give something to the carnival community--

That is, to the crowds, to his customers,
To travelers from afar and new comers--
He could give them a new prize,
Something they could win, after 3 tries,

Three tries of throwing a ball,
Against a target on the wall,
Or a ring, or a dart,
Or maybe whoever had the best fart,

Any game would do, in fact,
For one thing his wall certainly lacked,
Was a porcelain gnome like the one there,
The one with the shiny glass hair.

So the carny looked around and grabbed,
The first thing he saw so as to nab,
TG in his blind oblivion,
For this was one chance in a million,

For how often does it happen--
I ask you, Gaby my Captain--
That the Travelocity Gnome shows up,
On your door step like a lost pup?

So the carny certainly knew,
What it was that he had to do:
He grabbed the first thing he could find,
Which was a rock, and from behind,

He snuck up on TG and then,
After five seconds exactly was when,
He wacked him across the head,
And TG fell over as if dead,

But he wasn't dead, of course--
Not like a marriage after divorce--
For he was knocked out, that's all,
Destined to be hung up on the wall,

The wall of the carny's stand,
Carried there in the carny's hand;
Straight to the door, the carny went--
For he had to work and pay the rent.

Through the door he passed,
And after a moment that didn't last,
We all heard him scream and shout,
For mad as Hades he was, no doubt:

'What in bloody carnations happened here?!
Oh my God! Oh my dear!
Who tore up my tent?! Who I ask, who?!
Who knocked down my stuffies, brown and blue?

This'll take me forever to clean up!
To fix, to mend, to stitch up!
I reckons' maybe an hour or so,
During which I'll cry woe.'

'Ok, now's our chance,' I said;
I leapt off, not landing on my head,
The others followed suit, of course--
Very dangerous, something I don't endorse.

'You mean to tell me,' said Bill,
After stabilizing, not making a spill,
'That all this time, after all we went through,
The ship was right here?! Tell me it ain't true.'

'Uh, Hubert?' Sally did question,
'This ship is an exact reflection,
Of the one we crashed on Jupiter,
And at the risk of sounding stupider,

I'm going venture a guess:
This is that ship, I do stress.'
'My thoughts exactly,' I replied,
'I knew it the moment it was spied,

By these my very eyes,
For unless it is a disguise,
It is the very ship we lost,
At such an immense cost.

For I need not remind you,
Of TG's story, if it be true,
Of how this ship he found,
And used it to get off the ground.'

'Yes,' Sally continued with excitement,
And then as if struck by enlightenment--
Expressed the following realization,
Which filled her with consternation:

'But where is he? That gnome?
Did he wonder off? Did he roam?
And for that matter, where's Sir Martian?
I hope their condition didn't harshen.'

'I'm here! I'm here!' Sir Martian said,
Coming around the corner beat red,
Red from all the running he had to do,
Panting and sweating, it's true,

You wouldn't believe what happened to me,'
And TG poked his head out for all to see,
'And me tew, fo' I was the'e, yew know,
Watching ove' Sir Ma'tian like a crow.

We we'e hanging the'e, yew see'--
Sir Martian interrupted very rudely--
'Shut up, let me tell the story,'
To which TG said: 'Oh, I'm sawry.'

'We were hanging there,' he continued,
'From the carny's ceiling, where we stewed,
Nowhere to go, and couldn't drop down,
To be found by the carny, that clown,

And as soon as he walked through the door,
TG said into my ear--quietly, not with a roar:
'Pretend you' a stuffy?'
'What?' I said looking rather puffy--

'Pretend--oh, he'e he comes,'--
And in came the carny with his thumbs--
And right away I acted like a stuffy,
A rather weird one, looking scruffy.

I put on a happy grin,
And stayed still as a pin,
Stuck in a cushion on a table,
That didn't move, being stable.

I wobbled a little back and forth,
Swinging a bit South, a bit North,
Until I became perfectly still,
And held on with all my will.

Still with that teddy bear,
Attached to my shoe down there,
But the carny didn't seem to care,
The fact that I stood out didn't scare--

It didn't scare the carny, that is,
For he seemed more concern about this bizz,
With his carny tent, the damage and the mess,
Which, at the time, caused him much distress.

So after an hour or so,
He repaired it, not going slow,
It took a lot for me,
To hold on, and not go pee--

I mean, to hold on for a whole hour,
Took a lot of musculature power,
And the fact that I really had to pee,
Didn't exactly help, you see.

But lucky for us--TG and I--
He caught some customers walking by,
The carny, that is, he propositioned them,
Clearing his throat: "Ah-hem!

That's right, as I was sayin',
If any of these games you be playin'
You could win a big blue stuffy,
Maybe that one up there, lookin' puffy--

And... uh... I'll throw in the bear,
But only 'cause I'm fair--
For I'll give ya' a fair chance,
To win that bear hangin' from his pants:

If ya' pay a couple bucks more,
I'll let ya' have, not three, but four--
Four shots that is, four tries--
And if ya wins all four, by surprise,

I'll include the teddy bear,
With that... that there--
Uh, puffy lookin' Martian doll,
Two bucks more I asks, is all.'"--

"And then I poked out my head,"
TG started talking instead,
"Just tew see myself on the waull,
Which turned out to be a bad caull,

Fo' it's the most eery thing--
One might say it's even distu'bing--
To see one's double on the waull,
O' really, anywhe'e at aull.

But lucky fo' me, I kept my sanity,
Fo' I was still out cold, you see--
That is, the me on the waull,
The one tew hou's younga' and aull.

But I had seen enough, I decided,
And slipped back to whe'e I resided,
Back into the back pack, that is to say,
Back into the back pack, the'e to stay.'

'Don't interrupt,' Sir Martian continued,
'For that is incontestably rude--
Now as I was saying, friends of mine,
I was almost ready to whine,

From the strain of hanging there,
Until a woman with black curly hair,
And glasses as thick as peanut butter,
And chubby enough to make you stutter,

Came waltzing up to the carny stand,
Waving a wad of cash in her hand;
"Oh, what an ado'able lookin' beah,
With such cute fuzzy-wuzzy hair,

I jus' gotta have it, deah,
And I won't shed a single teah,
If I have to pay a few bucks mo'e,
And win that ugly lookin' Ma'tian eye-soa'."

While that comment enraged me so,
While I suppressed my anger down low,
The lady handed over the cash,
Making her decision rather rash,

But rash as it was, it paid off,
For before you could even cough,
She took all four shots,
Giving everything she gots,

And all four times, she struck gold,
The bull's-eye that is, or so I'm told,
For behind me, I couldn't exactly look,
But the carny's words, I certainly took:

"Woaw! Not bad, lady, not bad at all!
You sure know how'da hit that wall,
For that was a perfect score,
Not a single miss--four outa' four!"

So the carny, impressed as he was,
Took me down from the ceiling because,
Because of what just occurred,
And so followed through with his word.

To the lady, I was handed over,
And like a puppy named Rover,
Who was tired of walking,
And put up an incessant barking,

She carried me under her arm,
And I felt out of the way of harm,
And a bit more relaxed too,
For I could finally undo,

The knots in my muscles soar,
And the kinks and aches galore,
And once the pain began to melt,
Once relaxed I finally felt,

I squirmed and wiggled--
And the pour lady, she giggled,
From the tickling I caused her,
For I was causing quite a stir,

"Let me go, lady!" I demanded,
And onto the ground I landed,
For my sudden speaking out,
Scared her so as to shout,

To panic and scream,
Like having a terrible dream,
And she dropped me, she did,
Causing me to land on my lid.

"So what do we do now?
We've gotta get back somehow,"
I asked with some consternation,
To which TG replied without hesitation:

"Well, he'e's a wild and cwazy idea,
Which doesn't take an encyclopedia:
Why dewn't we just waulk?
Instead of sitting he'e to taulk."

"But don't you see?!" I said,
"Our chances of rendezvousing are now dead!
For myself, I do convince,
That it's been an hour since,

We were hanging there like a bat,
And I'm sure they haven't sat,
On their bums just to wait,
For us being so late."

"You mean Hubert and the rest?"
TG asked, his arms across his chest,
"Yes," I replied, "I'm sure they're gone,
By now since it's been so long.

Our only hope is to find Fred,
The carny who, with a smart head,
Figured out how to time travel,
For with him, a solution will unravel,

That is, a solution to our predicament,
A solution as solid as cement,
For all we have to do,
Is go back an hour or two,

Back in time that is to say,
So I suggest, if I may,
That we give Fred another visit,
And in his time machine, sit,

That is, aboard the ride, climb,
And then travel back in time,
Until at the perfect moment we arrive,
And then, with all our might, strive,

To get to the carny stand and then,
Rendezvous with the women and men--
That is, our friends, Hubert and Sally,
And the rest waiting in the back alley."

"Brilliant!" TG did exclaim,
"To Fwed's Time Machine let's aim!"
To which I said: "Oh but wait,"
And for a while I did hesitate:

"We don't have a comb,"
But did that upset Mr. Gnome?
No, in fact he seemed in bliss,
Happy, unphased, for he said this:

"No weuries, my good chap,
Good fo'tune faulls into our lap,
For while we we'e caught there,
Unde' that lady's a'mpit hair,

I managed to snatch a little prize,
While eating some of her fwench fwies."
And what did TG snatch, you ask?
Was it a watch, a pair of spectacles, a flask?

No, in fact, it was a comb!
Away from her purse, it did roam,
With the helping hand of TG--
Literally--in his hand it was, you see,

For he snatched it from her purse,
--I hope we didn't inherit a curse--
For stealing, I mean--that would suck--
In fact, it would be really bad luck.

But anyway, we had a comb,
And now we could go back home--
Er, back an hour ago, I mean,
And then run back to where we've been.

So we did exactly that,
We ran to where Fred was at,
And asked if we could climb aboard,
An act we could now afford.

But not before finding a place to pee,
For I had to go really bad, you see,
But I'll spare you the details,
My good friends, males and females.

Anyways, it's beside the point,
For we certainly didn't disappoint,
Fred the carny with our offer,
Which he used to fill his coffer.

Back in time we went,
Back an hour ago we were sent,
Back to the time just before,
We climbed above the floor,

The floor, that is, of the carny stand,
Climbing the wall with foot and hand,
Climbing on stuffies and prizes,
To the ceiling which was both our demises.

But this was certainly not a demise,
For we knew it would be quite a surprise,
For you all to see us here right now,
And make you say 'Oh, wow!'"
My thoughts | My art | My music | My poetry

I don't care about income inequality, I care about the idea that there are people who have actual obstacles to success.
-Ben Shapiro

...we hear about the wage gap, the idea that women are paid significantly less than men--seventy two cents on the dollar--that's absolute shear nonesense--it is absolute nonesense--in 147 out of 150 of the biggest cities in America, women make 8% more money than men do in their peer group. That wage gap is growing, not shrinking.
-Ben Shapiro

We're in a situation now where students can go to university and come out dumber than when they went in. They are infantalized by safe space and trigger warning culture, the idea that interogating a new idea, coming into contact with a school of thought or a person that doesn't conform to your prejudices is somehow problematic, that it gives rise to trauma.
-Milo Yiannopoulus

Fuck your feelings, snowflake
-Milo Yiannopoulos
User avatar
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Posts: 8783
Joined: Sat May 27, 2006 10:25 pm
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Re: Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Postby gib » Sun Jul 02, 2017 5:25 am

"Oh, wow!" said Sally in surprise,
Standing there with wide open eyes,
"So, Sir Martian, what you mean to say,
--And correct me if I'm wrong, eh--

Is that behind this very wall,
Is another you. Is that a bad call?"
"Not bad at aull," TG did interject,
"And if pe' chance you will recollect,

You might recaul that I'm the'e too,
In fact, the'e a'e three of me, it's true,
One he'e befo' you, speaking now,
And the'e a'e two mo', if you'll allow,

One hanging on the waull,
Anothe' cu'led up like a baul,
Snug inside Si' Ma'tian's backpack,
Tuying ha'd not to have a panic attack."

"Forget about them," I said with impatience,
"For we are blessed with a familiar acquaintance:
The real Sir Martian and TG himself,
The one from Mars and that little elf."

"I'm a gnome, thank yew vewy much,"
Said TG who wasn't an elf as such,
"But yo' right, we'e he'e,
So what is the'e to fea'?

Those othe' guys', those copies of us,
Will rondezvous with you, so what's the fuss?
In fact, they'll become us, eventually,
Fo' I've experienced it, quite sensually."

"Well, if that's all now settled,"
Into the discussion Sally meddled,
"Let's focus on the situation at hand:
That is, on what just recently did land,

On what seems to be our long lost ship,
The one that, in the wing, was a rip,
The one that on Jupiter we stashed,
And into an old shack crashed."

"Yo' ship?!" TG exclaimed,
At the ship his finger aimed,
"Why, that's my ship!
Fo' I found it and fixed the rip,

Found it... in a shack... on Jupita'--
Oh God, I now feel even stupida',
It is yo' ship, isn't it?
Even though in the cockpit I did sit."

While dejected TG did look,
Notice of the bear, Sally took:
"What's that?" she asked point blank,
"Uh, well to be quite frank,"

Sir Martian did reply,
"It's a stuffy, but don't ask why,
It ended up stuck on my shoe,
For I don't recall stepping in glue,

Such that things get stuck--
Like dirt, dust, or muck,
Or even this teddy bear--
To my shoes down there.

I mean, I'm not stuck to it--
Well I am, but just a little bit--
But I mean: if you want it, it's yours,
Or even any of you fours."

"Oh, I want it! I really, really do!"
Sally jumped up and down like a kangaroo,
"It's such a cute little thing,
Brown and fuzzy, the little darling."

"Then it's yours," Sir Martian decided,
And to her, the bear he provided;
But while all this was going on,
Focused I was on TG's face, looking long.

"No worries, my good gnome,"
I said, "We'll fly you back home,
For it's the least we can do,
Short of inaugurating you into our crew,

In fact, why not?
For we owe you a lot,
For bringing our ship back,
The one we, for so long, did lack,

Not to mention the great job you did,
Fixing 'er up--way to go, kid!
So it's only fair, I say,
That we inaugurate you, if it's ok,

Into our crew--at least for now--
Until we get you home somehow."
"Und ve do know how, Hubert my dear,"
Said Gertrude, grinning ear to ear,

"Fo it is ze same how,
Zat stands before us now,
Ze same how by vich Bill und I,
Vill get to our homes, by und by."

"I certainly hope so, Gertrude,"
Into the discussion Bill did intrude,
"And while not to spoil all the fun,
I really must remind everyone,

That it was at this juncture, we decided,
That we would choose, before we divided,
Whether to leave this carny joint,
Or heed to Hubert's cogent point--

Namely, that we ought to wait,
For this 'Gabriel' who, in hours late,
Is expected to arrive on the scene,
And explain to us where he's been."

"Javol, my dear Bill," Gertrude did reply,
"Und if you vill recall, silly guy,
Ve did conclude wiz zis for sure:
Zat if your intentions are still pure--

Zat is, of remaining loyal to Gaby--
Zen it is for sure--not maybe--
Zat you must make a choice,
Und you must express it viz your voice,

Vezer to come or to stay,
Und hope zat on anozer day,
Anozer ship of some kind vill come,
Und pick you up off your bum,

Und take you to vere you vant to go,
To a place cold und full of snow,
Or some place blazing wiz heat,
Or somevere between--vich can't be beat.

Zat is, in case your captain doesn't come,
In case he already arrived, sinking: "ho hum,
Hubert isn't here, I don't see his face,
Too bad, might as vell leave zis place."'

"Gertrude, you're absolutely right,"
I replied, "For we should not lose sight,
Of this decision we now must make,
For now is not the time to make a mistake.

I can appreciate that you, you, and you,"
I pointed to the newest members of our crew,
"Want nothing more than to get back home,
Especially you, I would think, Mr. Gnome."

"Why, yes I would! How did yew know?"
Said TG, missing Earth left long ago,
"But I still feel," I did confess,
"A deep loyalty to Capt. Gaby, nonetheless,

And it's true that even though,
For certain, I very well know,
That there is a slight chance,
He's been here already, I take a stance,

And must insist that I stay,
Waiting for Gaby, if per chance he may,
Still arrive and expect us here,
So that we may reunite, peer to peer.

Any of you may choose to go,
But I think members of the crew know,
That a duty befalls us all,
To answer this most pressing call,

To stand by our captain and await,
His arrival, even if he's late;
The rest of you may go,
If for home, your hearts bleed so,

But I choose to stay,
And hope that, by you, that's OK."
"While your point," said Bill in response,
"You did quite well to ensconce,

I must point out, just in case,
You were thinking at too fast a pace,
To realize this important implication:
That while the rest of us leave this nation,

We will be stealing your ship,
About which we recently got the tip,
That it doesn't belong to TG but to you,
And the rest of your loyal crew,

The very crew you now beckon to stay,
Behind so as to abandon, if I may,
The very ship which you now claim,
To be your's--this one here--the same,

So if we--Gertrude and I--use it to get home--
I mean, Gertrude and I, plus this here Gnome--
It will, quite clearly, defeat the whole purpose,
Of reclaiming your ship if you don't come with us.

Might I suggest, if I may,
That while you remain here to stay,
At least one member of your crew,
Drive us home--even if not you!"

"An interesting thought," I had to confess,
"For you certainly know how to clear up a mess--
I mean, you're right, after all,
For your logic is right on the ball,

One of us, maybe two,
Will stay here like glue,
While the other, maybe more,
Will, through they skies, soar,

And drop off you three,
Wherever your homes may be,
Which, considering the state,
That we left them in of late,

Could be absolutely anywhere,
Maybe there, or there, or even over there,
Needless to say, it could take a while,
For you'll have to travel more than a mile."

"I'll go. I wanna get outa here,"
Sir Martian did volunteer,
"I'll drive Gertrude, Bill, and TG,
To wherever they want to be."

"Excellent!" I replied,
"Then here on Saturn I'll reside,
Here to await the arrival of Gaby,
Which shouldn't be long now, maybe."
My thoughts | My art | My music | My poetry

I don't care about income inequality, I care about the idea that there are people who have actual obstacles to success.
-Ben Shapiro

...we hear about the wage gap, the idea that women are paid significantly less than men--seventy two cents on the dollar--that's absolute shear nonesense--it is absolute nonesense--in 147 out of 150 of the biggest cities in America, women make 8% more money than men do in their peer group. That wage gap is growing, not shrinking.
-Ben Shapiro

We're in a situation now where students can go to university and come out dumber than when they went in. They are infantalized by safe space and trigger warning culture, the idea that interogating a new idea, coming into contact with a school of thought or a person that doesn't conform to your prejudices is somehow problematic, that it gives rise to trauma.
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Fuck your feelings, snowflake
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Re: Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Postby gib » Fri Jul 07, 2017 10:55 pm

"Oh, then I'll stay too,"
Said Sally, eyes wide and blue,
Hugging my arm tight as though,
She just had to not let go,

"For think of all the fun,
We can have under the Saturnian sun,
Think of all the fun rides,
And all the games Saturn hides,

For all we have to do is explore,
And we'll find them and so much more,
Like--*GASP*--looky there!"--
Something electrified Sally's hair!

For it stood up on its ends--
Like the jolt that a shock sends,
A shock of electricity, that is,
Or a soda pop with too much fizz--

And before I could ask,
Upon what her eyes did bask,
She was off and running,
Towards something she found stunning:

It was a cotton candy stand,
Opposite of where TG did land,
And upon looking at the sign,
I understood why she made a b-line,

Straight for that place,
For it was obvious on its face:
The sign read: "The Candy Storm,"
Plastered on clouds in a swarm,

Clouds, that is, ominous and dark,
With winds and rain looking stark,
For it must have been the bolt of lightning,
Sizzling, cracking, and looking quite frightening,

That attracted Sally so,
For Sally, that girl, we all know--
We know, that is, how she does love,
Electricity and lightning from above,

So obviously, she couldn't resist,
Which is why I got the gist,
Of what it was she was up to,
And didn't worry, nothing further ado.

So my attention I turned back,
Away from the Candy Storm shack,
To resume the conversation,
About each his and her destination:

'Well, Sir Martian, as you were saying,'
I continued, my attention no longer straying,
'It would be great if you could strive,
To get these three home while you drive,

Er, I mean, these two that is,
For I fear TG is up to some strange bizz.'
Sir Martian turned his head to look,
Into his backpack, into TG's nook,

That is, the place where he hides,
That backpack in which he resides--
For Sir Martian was surprised to see,
Upon looking to where TG would be,

Should he have stayed put;
But that he didn't, for he was on foot!
In fact, Sir Martian heard his voice:
'Oh,' he heard, 'Yo' name is Joyce?'

Sir Martian turned around,
And TG, he immediately found,
For he must have snuck away,
During all the confusing disarray,

And was now talking to a couple,
Got there quick on the double,
One whose name was Joyce, evidently,
And the other: "I'm Joe from Bentley,

At Bentley Motors, we're anything but ordinary,
Our cars are the finest, they're extraordinary!
We strive for excellence, to be the best,
We're number one, better than the rest,

We care here at Bentley,
We treat our customers quite gentle,
The customer always comes first, we say,
So come drive a Bentley today!

Anyway, nice to meet you Mr. Gnome,
It's good to meet someone far from home,
Earth, that is, for we're from there too,
For we're tourists just like you.

And to answer your question: sure!
No problem! We'll take your picture."
And at those words, TG struck a pose,
While to his eyes, a camera Joe rose.

"Sir Martian, listen to me--
We don't have time, you see,"
I said with a sense of urgency,
As though this were an emergency,

"I have an idea, but we must act fast,
For the time we have will not last--
We must get into that picture there,
Let's go now, come on, don't just stare!"

I didn't have time to explain,
But nonetheless, like a crazy train,
Sir Martian and I began to move,
Immediately, we got into the groove:

That is, we began to run,
And not so much out of fun,
But because we had to get there,
Quick as a bunny, a hare!

For Sir Martian got the gist--
The urgency, he did not miss--
The urgency of my plan,
Which I would explain later, man.

At the same time, we took a dash;
Unfortunately, we did it rather rash,
For into each other, we did bash,
And to the ground, we did crash.

In fact, we were tangled up in knots,
For somehow, our arms and legs got caughts,
They were all twisted and mangled,
Around each other, they were tangled,

That is, like a liquorice stick,
Or a helix, or a cyclone thick,
His arms were wrapped around mine,
And our legs too, which wasn't fine.

Needless to say, we couldn't move;
So difficult did getting up prove,
That we just rolled around on the dirt,
For what more could we do, I assert.

Meanwhile, we could hear a voice:
Joe from Bentley's, husband of Joyce--
'I'm about to do it,' he said,
'I'm raising the camera to my head!'

Obviously, we had little time,
For whether reason or rhyme,
We absolutely had to get untangled,
To get unstuck, unknotted, unmangled,

Meanwhile again, Sally was enthralled,
She was so happy, she almost bawled,
For not only was she in candy Heaven,
But for a taste of electricity, she was revin'.

She stood there at the Candy Storm,
Listening to a guy named Norm:
'It's electrifying! It's electrifying!
You can trust me! I ain't lying!

For this ain't no mere candy stand--
We offer a jolt, ready at hand!
Just take one bite of our cotton candy,
And if you're a fan of lightning, you'll be ready,

For a charge does our candy hold--
And that's a warning--you've been told!--
For only from the finest storm clouds,
Thundering over the greatest crowds,

Did we pluck our cotton candy,
For that is certainly quite dandy,
When to buyers one wants to sell,
Whose thirst one can only quell,

With a jolt of electricity,
For those buyers, you see,
Are just like you and me:
Lovers of electricity, agree?'

'Oh, I do!' Sally replied with excitement,
'For electricity can provide enlightenment--
Literally! It lightens up our lives,
With light bulbs, toys, and my car which drives.'

'Then, m'lady, let me offer you a sample,
Which, to entice you, is more than ample,
The finest line of our sugary cotton,
That my hard working staff has gotten--

For a brave bunch they are,
To have plucked it from afar,
From the most fierce storms of Saturn,
From that place where storms are a pattern--

That is, the storms that repeat,
Every season from the heat,
The storms of the tropic, that is,
From the Equator, they sizzle and fizz,

For that is the hottest place on Saturn,
Where the blazing sun does heat and burn,
And causes storms not only of wind and rain,
But thunder and lightning to shock your brain.

But they were brave, I say,
My staff, for on Monday,
A special excursion, they took,
To the Saturnian tropics, that special nook,

And reached up to the Hurricane clouds--
Above the people, above the crowds--
And plucked just bit of fuzzy whiteness,
And with it, captured a bit of brightness--

Lightning, that is, with which it shines--
Like the rosy red from the finest wines--
It does, I say, for look,' as he held it out,
As proof so that Sally wouldn't doubt,

The truth which he was telling,
A sample of his cotton candy swelling--
Swelling with lightning ready to burst free,
For it lit up flashing like a Christmas tree,

'Alls I had to do,' said Norm,
'Was to add sugar to that awful storm,
At least to this sample, I mean to say,
Strawberry in particular, but just today,

For I'm experimenting, trying it out,
To see if this flavor, my customers will flout,
Which is why I give it to you free,
For your reaction is all I want to see.'

'Well, how,' Sally replied, 'can I react?
Unless I taste it?! It's a fact!
So give to me, I say!
Let me taste it, let me Norm, today!'

Sally snatched the sample from Norm's hand,
And bit into it right where she did stand,
And the minute it touched her lips,
She started wiggling her hips--

She danced, that is to say,
But not because any music did play,
But because of the rhythm of electricity,
Which pulsed through her body immediately,

She wiggled and she jumped,
She giggled and she thumped,
With the pounding of her feet,
For it made her dance to the beat--

The beat of her heart, that is to say,
For it beat three times as fast, if I may,
And caused her to dance around--
A new treasure chest of fun, she found.

'A gotta take this back to Hubert,
And to the rest of them, I do assert,
For they've gotta taste this new dessert,
And so with my friends, I must flirt,'

She ran away from the Candy Storm,
Away from the electric swarm;
And ran to find Hubert and the rest,
For they had to try it--this treat, the best!

At that moment, Sir Martian and I,
After our ten millionth try,
Managed to get ourselves unfurled,
From the tangles into which we were hurled,

We resumed our hurried pace,
Towards that particular place,
Where the picture was about to be taken,
And from which it could not be mistaken,

That his voice was heard, Joe's from Bentley,
Which said quite softly, quite gently:
'Almost ready now... here we go...
Just have to get focused, you know...'

'Hey Hubert,' said another voice,
Into my left ear, the one of choice;
It was Sally, for she had caught up;
Running along side us, she did interrupt:

'You gotta try this cotton candy,
It's divine, to die for, marvelously dandy!'
And she stuffed the rain cloud from the South,
Right into my face, right into my mouth,

Right away, the shock got me,
It ran through my entire body!
In fact, it sent me bouncing around,
Like a bouncy ball a cat found,

And started swatting at,
When suddenly, on Sir Martian I sat--
I tripped, that is, I fell,
And before either of us could tell,

What was happening, we were down again,
We hit the ground hard--but then, but then--
But then I bounced right back to my feet--
Must have been the energetic electric heat--

I pulled out the cotton candy and got myself together,
And said 'A tasty bit of sugar coated weather,
But this is neither the time nor place;
Please come with us though--and keep pace.'

My focus, I then resumed,
And towards the picture we zoomed,
Sally tagging along just because--
Because, well, why not, her reason was.

'Ok,' said Joe from Bentley,
'You can smile whenever you're ready,
Until then, I'll be waiting--
For your smile, I'll be anticipating.'

TG looked like he was getting ready,
As Joe from Bentley held the camera steady,
But something caught TG's eye,
Something on the ground; he said: 'Oh my,

Would you look at that!
A candy apple, plump and fat,
And, oh, how scrumptious it looks,
Scrumptious, at least, in my books.'

So lacking the will to resist,
TG bent over to--well, you get the gist--
He picked up the apple of candy,
And said, 'My, isn't that dandy,

Just a few spots of dirt,
And those hair's I'm sure won't hurt,
And all those scraps of papa',
So tiny and ha'mless, like particles of vapa',

Why, it's a treat fit fo' a king,
A sweet taste I'm sua' it will buing,
To my mouth and then some,
Like flava' packed bubble gum.'

He held it up and stood straight,
Making sure to correct his gait,
And before biting into that tasty treat,
He remembered to smile nice and neat.

And right at that very minute,
The picture, we got in it--
Sally and I, that is to say--
Not a minute too late on this day.

'Smile,' I said to Sally,
At this point just outside the alley.
Though a bit confused, she did what I said--
She smiled, that is, raising her head.

Joe from Bentley finally took the picture,
As focused as a bishop reading scripture.
Out of the camera, like toast from a toaster,
The photo popped, like a tiny poster.

Then suddenly, out of the blue,
Sir Martian came crashing through,
Like a barreling land rover,
He knocked us all over,

'I'm here, I'm here,' he said,
Getting to his feet, shaking his head,
'Did I miss the picture? Did I?
I sure hope not; I'm so not camera shy.'

'Oh my,' said Joe from Bentley,
Looking at us quite intently,
'Are these people bothering you?
Are they, Mr. Gnome? Who are they? Who?!'

'Er, uh, I'd ratha' not say--
Just some chaps I met ea'lia' today--
But pay them no botha', my good fuiend;
Now that cameua which, to you, I did lend,

I'll have it back please, with the photo--
Toss it to me like a hot potato!'
Joe from Bentley fulfilled his request,
Saying 'Oh, uh, sure, and to you, all the best.'

He handed TG the photo and the camera,
And then disappeared, like a chimera,
With Joyce, into the crowd,
And couldn't be heard amongst the noises loud.

'Well, can someone now tell me,'
Said Sir Martian to the other three,
'What this is all about?
Some odd mischief, no doubt.'

'No mischief,' I said at last
'And not just for a wild blast,
But for this item right here!'
I snatched from TG standing near,

The photo in his hand,
And though looking quite bland,
I held it up for the others to see,
The picture of Sally, TG, and me.

'Uh... so?' Sir Martian did question,
For he didn't even entertain the suggestion,
That more than a photograph, this was,
So much more than that because:

'Because, it's a postcard!
Figuring that out isn't that hard,
For look, won't you?
And you too, Sally, you too!'

I took two steps towards them,
So they could make out this fine gem,
For it really was a postcard!--
Of that fact, they were suddenly on guard,

For they could see in the corner up there,
The postage right above my frizzy hair,
And on the same side, right below,
Was the address section, you know.

'Don't you see?' I continued--
I had to explain so not to be rude--
'TG's camera is far from ordinary;
It pops out postcards that are extraordinary,

Where else do you think they come from?
These postcards of his? From his bum?
No! He produces them himself,
The clever little elf,

He produces them from scratch,
And sends them home, sometimes in batch.
Isn't that right, Mr. Gnome?
About these postcards you send home?'

'Yes, if yew must knew,
You a'e right, which goes to show,
That you're sma'ta' than the average bear,
Now give me my picta' back! That one the'e!'

Well, it was his picture after all,
So I gave it back, and didn't stall,
And just so they all understood,
I resumed my speech the best I could:

'You see everyone, here's my plan,
We need some way of contacting the man--
Captain Gaby, that is to say,
For though I plan to stay here today,

The possibility remains, you see,
That he came and left at half past three,
So just in case of that possibility,
I'd like to request, without hostility,

That we send this postcard along,
With whoever, from Saturn, wants to be gone,
For so long as we address it,
To Captain Gaby, I will stress it:

He will get it eventually--
For sure, not just potentially--
So along the way, Mr. Gnome,
Or when you get back home,

If you would be so kind,
If a mailbox you do find,
To drop it off and let it be,
For the mailman to find, you see?'

'Why, that's brilliant, Hubert!'
Sally ignited and did assert,
'And I assume, 'cause it makes sense--
Unless I'm really, really dense--

That you plan on writing something,
Certainly more than just one thing,
For though Gaby will surely recognize us,
He may just be confused, and plus:

What else ya' gonna do with a postcard?
You're supposed to write something, a kind regard,
A how ya' been, greetings and salutations,
Or on the new baby, congratulations!'

'Well, of course, Sally dear,'
I replied to my friend and peer,
'For I have every intention,
Of explaining to Gaby our abstention,

From his half of the crew,
And why we have yet to rendezvous,
For this is crucial for sure,
Otherwise the postcard will just be a blur,

A blur of confusion, that is,
Like the chaos of foam and fizz,
That erupts from a bottle of soda,
Or like the teachings of Master Yoda.

No, I want to be clear,
My good friend Sally dear,
I want to explain to Captain Gaby,
Where we've been and where we are, and maybe,

Where we'll be when we all meet up,
For on that goal, I will not give up,
And the way to ensure that is,
To explain, on that postcard, all this bizz.'

So you see, my Captain and friend,
That's why to you, this postcard I send,
It is why I sit here in the cockpit,
Of our ship, just waiting for a bit,

Writing our trials and tribulations,
All the scares and excitations,
Everything we've been through,
And all that's still going on too.

I write this in anticipation,
That you get it without complication,
And that it ties up all loose ends,
Filling in the holes and mending the bends,

And most important of all--
And this is totally your call--
That you please come and rescue us--
If Sir Martian won't, we'll have to take the bus."
My thoughts | My art | My music | My poetry

I don't care about income inequality, I care about the idea that there are people who have actual obstacles to success.
-Ben Shapiro

...we hear about the wage gap, the idea that women are paid significantly less than men--seventy two cents on the dollar--that's absolute shear nonesense--it is absolute nonesense--in 147 out of 150 of the biggest cities in America, women make 8% more money than men do in their peer group. That wage gap is growing, not shrinking.
-Ben Shapiro

We're in a situation now where students can go to university and come out dumber than when they went in. They are infantalized by safe space and trigger warning culture, the idea that interogating a new idea, coming into contact with a school of thought or a person that doesn't conform to your prejudices is somehow problematic, that it gives rise to trauma.
-Milo Yiannopoulus

Fuck your feelings, snowflake
-Milo Yiannopoulos
User avatar
resident exorcist
Posts: 8783
Joined: Sat May 27, 2006 10:25 pm
Location: in your mom

Re: Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Postby gib » Sat Jul 08, 2017 5:17 am

And just as I would be finished reading,
Sir Martian would be outside screaming--
He'd seem to be alarmed at something,
As if there were some danger lingering,

For he'd be frantically pointing out the window,
Straight ahead, that is, speaking a lingo,
That I just couldn't make out,
Because of how he did scream and shout.

So I'd turn my head to look,
At what Sir Martian obviously took,
To be a cause for concern,
And pretty quickly, I'd learn,

That we'd be about to crash!
And we would! SMASH!!!
We'd crash right into Mercury--
It'd be a glorious blaze of furry!

Sir Martian wouldn't crash, lucky guy,
For he was in the next lane, which is why,
He'd whiz right by Mercury, and then,
Turned around to meet up with us again.

While he'd be doing this, we'd have disembarked,
Our ship, now in shambles and permanently parked;
I'd swat away the stars around my head,
Until all that'd be left, glowing white, blue, and red,

Were the one's in the Heavens up there,
Shining on the Mercurian landscape, forlorn and bare,
For there wouldn't be much to this desolate planet,
Just rock, craters, maybe a bit of granite.

I'd be followed by Immanuel and Icy,
Then the smell of something spicy,
Would start emanating from the side window,
And out would pop Franky, covered head to toe,

In mustard, ketchup, and buns,
Plus a whole swack of hot dogs, tons!
And after a few seconds more,
He'd be launched to the Mercurian floor,

By Buster poking his head out,
Accidentally, of course, no doubt.
Franky would shake his head and wipe his face,
Trying to orient himself to this place.

"Woff!" Buster would yelp out the window,
Looking at Franky down below,
"You all wight, Fwanky?
Do you need a hanky?

To wipe away all dat mustawd?
And de ketchup wiv which it is cwustewed?"
"I tink he needs more dan a hanky, Bustew,"
Rex would join in, "Fo he wooks waver lackluster."

"He does indeed," Spot would poke his head out,
Jamming up the window like a clogged up spout,
Leaving no room for another doggy head,
Which is why they'd be ejected instead,

When, that is, Puddles and Sparky,
Would poke their heads out, causing anarchy,
Or at least, a bit of disorder--
Oh, how I'd wish I had my camcorder--

For the other three would fall to the ground,
On top of Franky, starting with the greyhound--
Buster, that is, followed by Rex, then Spot,
Who'd look up at the twins and say "Tanks a wot!"

"You' wewcome," they'd say in tandem,
For sarcasm would have been lost on them,
"And you mustn't fo'get you' smokey stand--
He'e, let us give you a hand."

They'd disappear and come back in a second,
With the hot dog stand, I'd have reckoned,
And would drop it out the window,
Not to float in the air in limbo,

But to fall hard and fast,
Right towards Franky and the doggy cast;
The dogs would scatter in order to avoid,
Being crushed and utterly destroyed,

But Franky would be caught in the middle,
And therefore it would be no riddle,
What would happen to him,
For his fate was certainly grim:

He'd be smushed, he'd be pinned,
He certainly would not have grinned,
If upon waking up that morning,
He had gotten at least a warning,

That at the end of the day,
He'd be kept at bay,
Pinned to the Mercurian ground,
Unable to get himself unbound.

The rest would return--easily, being on their feet,
While Puddles and Sparky would climb down to meet,
The other doggies, now looking around,
At their new surroundings to which they'd be bound.

"Now what in de bwazes is dis pwace?"
Spot would say, bewilderment on his face,
Plus his fists on his hips,
And covered in potato chips.

"One minute, we we'e having fun,
Pwaying poker--I a'most won--
And de next--CWASH!!!
All cove'd in wewish and ho'se wadash!

And now we find ou'selves on dis stwange pwanet!
But why?! I need to know! Fo' I won't can it!"
"Me neider," Rex would pipe in,
"Fo' it was me who was about to win;

Just a mino' cowwection, Spot,
Fo' I tink you want to be mistaken not."
"You we'e about to win?!"
Would say Buster with a doubtful grin,

"Not unwess yo hand could beat mine,
Which is doubtful--I feew it in my spine!"
Puddles and Sparky would laugh together,
And then say, like birds of a feather:

"Dat's reawy funny, you guys,
But it shouldn't be a su'pwise,
Dat it was we who would win,
Dis game we we'e pweviously in."

"Fo' I had a woyaw fwush, I did,"
Puddles would say, for she would not kid,
"So did I," Sparky would add,
"And if you don't wike it, too bad!"

At which point, they'd all start to bark,
To which I'd respond with the following remark:
"QUIET!!!... there, now that I've got,
Everyone's attention, please bark not,

Let's get ourselves together,
And figure out whether,
We can get ourselves off this rock,
So come on, people, let's talk."

"Talk?!" Immanuel would almost shout,
"What is there to talk about?
We're marooned here on this desolate planet,
Talk is cheap, we might as well can it!

Oh, how dismal is our state,
To wonder aimlessly is our fate,
It is obvious that this was ordained,
For by determinism has our path been stained!"

"Determa-what?!" would question Icy,
"That sounds, like, mucho dicey;
I mean, I wouldn't wanna walk that path,
Because, well, you do the math,

You figure out why,
Why, that is to say, cutie-pie,
Why it's way cooler to chat,
Than to wonder aimlessly <-- yeah, that.

I mean, come on dude;
I don't mean to be rude,
But be more positive, more up beat,
Like, I mean, think on your feet.

You can totally do it, man,
I mean it! You totally can!
You're a philosopher, full of ideas,
Ideas juicier than a thousand tortillas.

Why, you should, like, lead this group,
This brainstorming session, I mean, this soup,
This soup of bodacious ideas and rad thoughts,
For philosophical genius is what you gots!"

"Why, thank you very much,"
Immanuel said, blushing and such,
"For it seems you too can be,
A one-man inspiration crew--at least to me.

For you're absolutely right,
Admit that I very well might,
But if I lead this group in thought,
I must first ask: why not?

Why not wait for Sir Martian,
Like awaiting a darshan,
A messenger from the Heavens,
For unless I've gone sixes and sevens,

I think that's an idea that's sound,
For then we will have found,
The rest of the crew--save Sally and Hubert--
But that's better than nothing, I do assert,

For the more numerous the minds,
The more ideas of all kinds,
Will come out and add,
To the solution and make us glad,

So let's just sit here and wait,
For I certainly believe in fate,
I believe, that is, they are fated to land,
In fact, I see them now, ready at hand."

And Immanuel would be right, he would,
For close to the spot where we'd have stood,
Sir Martian would soon land,
Sir Martian and the rest of the band--

That is, Bill, Gurtrude, and TG,
All together we'd soon be,
And then, with all minds together,
We'd churn up some wicked brainstorming weather.

But in trying to land, he'd hit my head,
Sir Martian, that is, but I wouldn't be dead,
Just a minor bruise is all,
A bump on my noggin, round like a ball.

Then he'd hit Sparky,
Causing a lot of barking malarky,
But he'd bounce right off,
Sparky letting out a cough,

From being winded in the stomach,
But was he hurt? No way, mac.
He'd just say "Dis cwazy dwiva',
Is Cwazia' dan Lady Godiva!"

Next, Sir Martian would back into Frank,
It would be like getting hit by a tank--
Franky's hot dog stand, that is--
For it certainly meant bizz--

It showed Sir Martian's ship,
As if shooting from the hip,
Who had the stronger suit of armour,
The stronger metal, like stone of marmer,

And it would make a dent,
In Sir Martian's ship, for it bent,
The nose, that is, of Sir Martian's ship,
He'd say to himself: "Get a grip!

Grab control, self, steer the wheel,
Don't make them give you another spiel--
Mom and dad, that is, another lecture,
Which would be long and boring, I conjecture.

Just for the sake of that boredom,
Just so I don't have to stand it, well um...
Learn how to drive, self!--
Don't land on Gaby, small as an elf!"

Sir Martian would get it together,
And despite the windy weather,
He'd manage to land the ship,
Thus ending a lengthy space trip.

Out of the hatch would pop Gurtrude,
Mumbling something about being rude:
"Zat's ze last time I ride wiz you!
To sink I vould be a member of your crew?!

Vy zat's utterly redicoolous,
It's vorse zan riding wiz Saint Nicholas,
For ven I did zat, it vaz a bumpy ride--
All ze ice und snow, ve did slip und slide--

Und ze howling vinds und ze cold,
Not to mention ze slay, creeky und old--
But at least, zat's a good excuse,
For it couldn't be helped, ze abuse.

Vat's your excuse, heir Martian?
Since ven did your driving skill harshen?
If I am to be a member of your crew,
You'd better shape up, it's true."

"Yeah, yeah, at least we're safe and sound,"
Would reply Sir Martian as he touched ground,
"And who's to thank for that? Me!
That's right, I got us here, you see."

"And where exactly is 'here'?" Bill would ask,
"Figuring that out should be our first task."
"I wholeha'tedly concu'," concurred TG,
"Fo' this place is a total mysteury,

It might help if I poked my head out,
Of this back pack, no doubt,
Then at least I could scope out the scene,
Check out my surroundings, I mean,

But why do that when I'm sew cozy,
Snug in this back pack, all rewsy?
Neeew, I think I'll stay he'e,
And accept the mysteury so queea'."

"But it's no mystery," Sir Martian would say,
"Didn't you see the sign a mile away?
It said: Mercury--1 light minute--
That would make this Mercury, wouldn't it?

But enough of that silly frilly foo,
Let me introduce you to the crew.
In fact, there they are now,
Along with a hot dog stand somehow."

My heart would fill with joy,
Like finding a long lost toy,
To see my old friend again,
Plus a woman and a couple men,

"My old friend!" I'd greet Sir Martian,
"To see you fills me with elation!
What's going on? How you been?
But of course I know, I mean--

I mean, it's all in that postcard,
Man, you're trials must have been hard.
I'm glad you made it in one piece,
And that our separation can finally cease."

We'd meet and embrace each other,
With a pat on the back, like brother to brother.
After all this time, this ordeal would be over,
What luck! Like that from a four leaf clover.

"I see you've collected a new member,"
Franky catching his attention like a glowing embers.
"Why yes, indeed I did,
And so have you, it would seem, kid.

At least two from the looks of it,
Maybe three, one stirring in your back pack a bit?
So why don't I introduce my crew to them,"
I'd clear my throat: "Ah-hem...

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,

That's Buster, Rex, Spot, and Puddles,
And finally Sparky who likes cuddles--"
"Hey, dat's pwivate," Sparky would interrupt--
I'd resume my intro rather abrupt:

"Oh, and I almost forgot,
That there's Franky, who seems caught,
Under his hot dog stand,
Maybe someone should give him a hand."

"Yo' da'n uight I'm caught,
In fact, I'm duipping snot,
Fuom my nose, and I can't wipe,
Fo' my hands a'e caught, I guipe."

While the doggies would come to his aid,
Another introduction would be made,
On Sir Martian's part, that is to say,
For he had to introduce his crew today:

"It's a pleasure to meet you all,"
He'd say with a twinkle in his eye ball,
"Now let me introduce my crew,
To each and every one of you.

I'm Sir Martian, but you know that,
These 3 behind me are where it's really at:
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.
In fact, that's where we were headed,
Not knowing that we'd soon be wedded,

We'd cross your path, that is to say,
And we'd turn around right away;
That's when you saw us.
And I handed over the post card thus."
My thoughts | My art | My music | My poetry

I don't care about income inequality, I care about the idea that there are people who have actual obstacles to success.
-Ben Shapiro

...we hear about the wage gap, the idea that women are paid significantly less than men--seventy two cents on the dollar--that's absolute shear nonesense--it is absolute nonesense--in 147 out of 150 of the biggest cities in America, women make 8% more money than men do in their peer group. That wage gap is growing, not shrinking.
-Ben Shapiro

We're in a situation now where students can go to university and come out dumber than when they went in. They are infantalized by safe space and trigger warning culture, the idea that interogating a new idea, coming into contact with a school of thought or a person that doesn't conform to your prejudices is somehow problematic, that it gives rise to trauma.
-Milo Yiannopoulus

Fuck your feelings, snowflake
-Milo Yiannopoulos
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Re: Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Postby gib » Fri Jul 21, 2017 2:38 am

--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:

A crowd would roar and give us a shock,
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.

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!!!"

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!
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:


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:

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,

Slate would repeat with a roar,
"YES!!! YES!!! WE WANT MORE!!!"--
Shaking Slate to the core.

Would taunt Slate to the zoo,
The zoo of fans down below,
To which they'd repeat themselves so:


"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.
My thoughts | My art | My music | My poetry

I don't care about income inequality, I care about the idea that there are people who have actual obstacles to success.
-Ben Shapiro

...we hear about the wage gap, the idea that women are paid significantly less than men--seventy two cents on the dollar--that's absolute shear nonesense--it is absolute nonesense--in 147 out of 150 of the biggest cities in America, women make 8% more money than men do in their peer group. That wage gap is growing, not shrinking.
-Ben Shapiro

We're in a situation now where students can go to university and come out dumber than when they went in. They are infantalized by safe space and trigger warning culture, the idea that interogating a new idea, coming into contact with a school of thought or a person that doesn't conform to your prejudices is somehow problematic, that it gives rise to trauma.
-Milo Yiannopoulus

Fuck your feelings, snowflake
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Re: Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Postby gib » Sun Aug 06, 2017 5:58 am

"Attention!," I'd say into the intercom,
"This is your captain speaking, da bomb!
If everybody's all comfy-cozy,
And feeling all peachy and rosy,

Let's blow this popsicle stand,
And on Saturn, let's aim to land,
Our mission, for those who don't know--
Namely, those performing in a show--

Is to rendezvous with our good friends,
Sally and Hubert, that is, and make amends,
For our inadvertent segregation,
Which caused much angst and frustration.

Our mission, in other words,
Is to fly like the birds,
Towards Saturn and then,
Make our crew whole again.

So crank the voltage and rev the engine,
Engage the booster rockets without cringin',
Let's give 'er all we've got,
Should we hold back? I think not!"

Well, to take off, we'd certainly try,
Taking off through the astral sky,
But the engines wouldn't seem enough,
Like they just didn't have the right stuff.

The ship would creek and it would shake,
But it just wouldn't soar for Heaven's sake;
It seemed like something'd be tugging us down,
Something big, something heavy, like a bejeweled crown.

Then it would don on me--of course!
We'd need several times the power of horse,
If we were going to lift off the ground,
Now that 3,000 people more we'd have found.

For have you ever tried,
To lift a crowd of fans a mile wide?
It's impossible, I tell you--
Even with a mighty ship and trusty crew.

Well, what could we do?
I wouldn't want to stick like glue,
Stuck to the Mercurial ground;
No, I wouldn't want to stick around.

But then, the most brilliant idea,
Would come to me like a subpoena,
In the back room, where doggies would play,
We'd have more power than the Sun at mid-day.

Franky's hot dog stand would do the trick,
For it was lean, mean, and really slick;
How could he cook hamburgers and hot dogs,
Without fuel, even if just burning logs.

"Franky," I'd say into the intercom,
"Yeah, what's up, cap'n?" he'd say with calm,
"I need you to do something for me,
I need your hot dog stand, for you see:

The engines don't have enough juice;
I need to put your hot dog stand to good use;
I need to use whatever power you got,
I need an extra boost--will you help or not?

"Why, of cou'se I'w help, cap'n,
It's de leas' I can do, bein' stwapped in,
Stwapped into you' ship, dat is to say,
'Cause you welcomed me in just yeste'day.

So I owe you a favou,
Fwom dat, I will not waver,
And if my hot dog stand you need,
Den my hot dog stand you'll have indeed."

"Good to hear, my good man,"
I'd reply into this tin can,
For that's all the mic would be,
A tin can strapped to a string, you see,

After all, I'm just a two year old,
Not some techy genius, who's been told,
How to build an actual intercom,
For a can, plus the help of my mom,

Is all I'd need to communicate,
With members of my crew, mate,
And it would work, I tell you,
For my command, Franky would do:

He'd rip out the grill from his cart,
It'd take so much strain, he'd fart;
But in the end, he'd get the job done:
He'd plug it in, and not just for fun;

He'd plug the grill into the hyperdrive,
And all of a sudden, the ship would come alive,
It'd receive a jolt, we'd all feel it,
From Franky's grill, the ship would steal it.

But it wouldn't be quite enough:
The engines would become a bit more tough,
But they wouldn't have the right stuff,
To say to Mercury: bugger off!

It certainly wasn't the power of an A-bomb,
So I'd question into the intercom:
"What's happening, Franky? What's wrong?"
And to make a story short that would be long:

Franky would say, sounding a bit sour:
"I'm afraid she don't have de power"
"We've got to have power, Franky!"
I'd insist trying not to sound cranky.

"I'm givin' 'er all she's got, capt'n,
Like strummin' a guitar from Eric Clapton,
But I don't 'tink she can take any more,
I'm givin' ya de trut', de score."

Well, I wouldn't want Frank's grill to break,
So I wouldn't insist for his sake,
I'd sit there trying to think,
And into deep thought I'd sink.

Then an idea would occur to me:
If extra power we couldn't free,
Then maybe we'd need to lose some weight,
Maybe get rid of something we'd hate.

"Franky," into the intercom I'd say,
"Is there anything with which we can do away?
Anything you and the dogs don't care for?
Anything you can dump to the Mercurian floor?"

"Well, cap'n" Franky would reply,
"Le'me just ask the dogs by-and-by.
We'll figu'e somet'in' out,
And den give you a shout."

So Franky would consult the dogs,
Asking them not to be hogs,
To let something go,
So that we could get on with the show.

"Dere must be somet'in' we can do wid'out,
Maybe a colla' or a chew toy, no doubt?
Or maybe some snacks dat no one likes,
Somet'in wid which you have guipes?"

"But Fwanky," Puddles would respond,
"Of evewyting you have, we a'e fond,
I don't want to get wid of a single smokey,
Or one fwench fwy or one burge', okie-dokie?"

"My sentiments exactwe," Sparky would say,
"De chips and de pizza's gotta stay--"
"And all de fixin's too," Rex would add,
"For you know I'w be extwemewy mad,

If you twow out de wewish or de mustawd,
Dough I wouldn't mind if you twew out de custawd."
"Why would Fwanky have custawd?" would ask Buster,
"Just sayin', Buste'; who knows what's in his snack cwuster."

"What about," Spot would speak true,
"De 10 miwwion potatoe chips colowed bwue?
De ones we paid a dolla' fo',
Surewy a couple miwwion, if not mo'e,

We can spawe, 4--even 5--miwwion bags,
Is worf one dollar pwus a few dirty wags,"
"I agwee, Spot," Sparky would jump in,
"But may I suggest dat we begin,

Wid Wex's shawe, fo' he's aweady had a ton,
A miwwion or so, so I say he's aweady had his fun."
"But dat's not fair," Rex would retort,
"And it doesn't even make sense, sport,

Fo' if you get wid of the west of my shawe,
And keep whateve' you guys have to spawe,
Den in de end, you guys wiww have mo'e dan me,
It's just dat you'ww get it latew, you see."

"Weww, dere's no way I'm getting wid of my shawe,"
Puddles would say, defending each doggy hair,
"Fo' I'm keeping my chips on de shewf,
And I'ww bite anyone's hand--even Gaby de ewf--

If dey twy to take my chips,
Or even just touch dem to deir lips."
"Me too," Spot would agree,
"Fo' I paid 20 cents, you see,

Fo' my faiw shawe of dose chips,
So I wiww fight, wiv bof thighs and hips,
To pwese've my weww earn shawe,
Fwom dose who would dawe,

To steaw what's wightfuwwy mine--
Dose bwue chips sacwed and divine."
"And if anyone tinks," Buster would add,
"Of twowing out my shawe, too bad!"

"Same hewe," Sparky would concur,
"Fo' I bewieve in commitment fo' sure,
And I'm committed to my shawe of de chips--
Dese a'e words of truff dat spiww fwom my wips!"

And due to irreconcilable differences,
One needn't make any inferences,
That the usual barking would ensue,
Barking to no avail, it's true.

Amidst the doggy howling,
And each doggy face scowling,
Franky would look down at his cart,
And suddenly notice something rather tart,

Or so it'd make him feel, at least at first,
But then he'd realize that this wasn't the worst.
In fact, what he'd spy would be the solution,
To all this doggy noise pollution:

There in his cart was a bag of buns,
Long forgotten for many years--tons!
He'd forgotten they were there,
Forgotten so long, they'd have grown hair!

Hair growing out of spores of mold,
Never had he seen buns so old;
It'd be a tragedy, at least at first,
And it would have been the worst,

If all that mattered was the bottom line,
For losing money in this business wasn't fine,
But in this case, it would be fine indeed,
For on blue chips galore, the doggies could feed.

"Woaw! Woaw! Woaw! Stop yo' holle'in!"
Franky would halt the doggy arguin',
"Evuybody calm down, evuybody jus' welax,
I got a solution, I got yo' backs.

Just look at dis, will ya?
I'm sure it will trill ya:"
The moldy buns, Franky'd pull from his stand,
He'd hold them high up in his hand.

"You wanna toss de buns, Fwanky?"
Rex would say, "Dat'd make us cwanky!
What if I wanna hambu'ge'?
Whadya gonna use? A block of suga'?"

"No, Rex," Franky would reply,
"Use a block a' suga'? Why would I?
I got plen'y of buns, don't fwet,
It's jus' dat, to info'm you, I reguet,

But moldy, dese buns have become,
And I tink you'd have to be weally dumb,
To eat hambu'ge's on moldy buead,
Fo' dat'd make you sick, if not dead.

So you guys can keep yo' blue chips,
You can savo' eve'y one dat touches yo' lips,
But dese buns he'e, well dey're a lost cause,
And dough we will miss dem, dere a'e laws,

Laws of culinary etiquette, laws of good taste,
Dat tell us buns like dese would feel like paste,
A guoss, moldy paste dat taste like scum,
Worse dan a smelly, poopy bum,

So de way I see it, my doggy fueinds,
Is dat dese buns have seen deir ends,
And so we have to trow dem out,
But dat's no reason to scueam and shout,

Fo' yo' blue chips, you guys get ta keep,
Which, at night, will help you sleep,
And besides, if a bit of weight we lose,
Den leaving dis joint is de option to choose,

And dat means we get to tuavel,
Which means mo'e options will unuavel,
Options like finding a anoder venue,
One in which we can find buns fwesh and new,

Or mo'e chips, or mo'e smokies, or mo'e pizza,
In fact, any snack dat pleases ya'!
But we gotta get off de g'ound,
Do you aguee? Is my reasoning sound?"

Puddles would look at Spot,
She would look perplexed, quite a lot,
Spot, in turn, would look at Buster,
Buster of all doggies in the cluster.

Buster would look at Rex quite intently,
Who'd also look perplexed, evidently,
And then look at Sparky,
Who, out of the doggy hierarchy,

Would look back at Puddles,
Thus encircling one of their many huddles,
Puddles would look back at Franky,
And say in a tone not so cranky:

"Fwanky, my dear, we accept yo' pwoposal,
You may add de buns to de gawbage disposal."
"Excellent!" Franky would ignite,
"Den let's put dose buns outa sight."

"Cap'n," Franky would say into the intercom,
"We have a puan, and it's de bomb--
Not a bomb, but de bomb,
You know, just so'z not to ala'm--"

"Hey, man," I'd reply into the intercom,
"Even if it was a bomb,
So long as it boosts us off the ground,
I'd be happy just to be space-bound."

So Franky'd carry through with the plan,
In fact, he'd do it one better, man;
Rather than throw the buns out,
Which'd be starting to smell like trout,

He'd throw them right into the grill,
Where they'd burn and burn until,
Not only would they lose weight,
But the extra fuel would satiate,

The hungry engine's lust for fire and blaze,
Pushing us off Mercury in a haze,
For we wouldn't fail, we wouldn't blow it,
We'd be up in space before you'd know it.
My thoughts | My art | My music | My poetry

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-Ben Shapiro

...we hear about the wage gap, the idea that women are paid significantly less than men--seventy two cents on the dollar--that's absolute shear nonesense--it is absolute nonesense--in 147 out of 150 of the biggest cities in America, women make 8% more money than men do in their peer group. That wage gap is growing, not shrinking.
-Ben Shapiro

We're in a situation now where students can go to university and come out dumber than when they went in. They are infantalized by safe space and trigger warning culture, the idea that interogating a new idea, coming into contact with a school of thought or a person that doesn't conform to your prejudices is somehow problematic, that it gives rise to trauma.
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Re: Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Postby gib » Fri Aug 11, 2017 9:21 pm

At this point in our journey,
We'd set our course, not for Fernie,
Fernie, BC, that is--in Canada--
No way, man, not there--uh-uh, no, nada!

We'd set our course for Saturn,
Which the Sun, like a brightly lit lantern,
Would be blocking, obstructing, impeding;
Any time soon, it would not be receding.

So what would we do?
Well, I'll give you a clue:
What would you do if,
A big guy named Bubba, standing all stiff,

Stood there blocking your way?
Would you just stand there all day?
Or would you simply walk around,
And continue to wherever you're bound?

You'd walk around, of course,
You wouldn't need a lot of force,
Just a simple turn of direction,
No pressure, of course, just a suggestion.

But since I'd be the captain without question,
It would be more than just a suggestion;
I would command: "Go around the Sun!"--
Yeah, that ought'a do it--job done!

But as soon as we'd set our course,
As soon as we'd gallop away like a horse,
As soon as we'd make it a few yards,
Fate would have it in her cards,

That we'd get sucked back in,
We'd get pulled as though by a pin,
Stuck into our side like a hook;
Our goose, would it cook?

Well, we'd soon find out:
For this is what would happen, no doubt:
It would be as if we were sucked in,
Into a worm hole, that is, thick or thin,

It'd be as if, out here in space,
A hungry worm was thrown, whose face,
He'd have stuffed with a scrumptious meal,
A meal made of spacetime fabric, for real.

Why would a worm be in this exact spot?
I don't presume to know, no I do not,
But if I were to guess, I'd say,
Someone would have thrown just yesterday,

An apple in which the worm would've resided,
But of this news, in me no one would've confided,
So I admit, this is just a guess,
What's for sure is that we'd be in a mess.

But a worm hole it would be like,
This tunnel, like a water dyke,
Which we'd be careening through,
Me and my loyal crew.

And the worst of the worse,
Was certainly a curse,
For this worm hole, this spacetime tunnel,
Was spiraling us, like into a funnel,

Straight towards the Sun,
Which certainly wasn't fun.
But not to worry, not to panic,
Chill, relax, eat some bannock;

For you see, when a worm eats a hole,
Like the burrowing of dirt by a mole,
Through the very fabric of space and time,
He eats his way out of the grime,

The grimy physical world, that is to say,
And into a realm above the spacetime fray--
That is, a realm outside time and outside space--
It sounds absurd, but it would be the case.

In a realm without time,
Things are pristine and sublime,
In a realm without space,
There's no room to stick your face.

The only things that can fit here,
Are apparitions and ghosts--oh dear!
For you see, what that entails,
For us behind the spacetime veils,

Is that ghosts we'd certainly be,
Not dead per se--but oh my, oh me--
We'd be among the dead, or at least,
In the realm of the past-on and deceased.

So long story short, we'd be safe,
For though the heat would surely chafe,
Our comfortable 20 degree cocpit,
And my comfy chair where I'd sit,

We'd be safe from burns and scars,
For through even the hottest stars,
Our bodies could pass through without scaith,
For how could you harm a ghost, a wraith?

So indeed our ship would continue,
Towards the Sun, but we'd just pass through,
We'd stream straight towards the center,
Through the surface, into the furnace, we'd enter,

We'd pass through screaming and shouting,
For though safe, we'd still be doubting,
The fact that we and our ship,
In virtue of falling into the spacetime rip,

Would have entered the realm of the dead,
Thus ghosts would we be instead,
Instead of living physical bodies,
Like shoes, shovels, and port-o-potties,

Any of which, if you threw into the Sun,
Would burn up (watching that would be fun),
But throwing ourselves into flames burning hot,
Wouldn't be so fun--certainly not.

But thank goodness, our bodies would be gone,
But hopefully, not for that long,
Just long enough to pass through the Sun,
Which, at least presently, wouldn't be fun.

We'd be screaming and shouting, like I said,
Fearing we'd die, though we'd already be dead,
For it'd be strange feeling, indeed it would,
To see flames all around where we'd have stood,

Yet feel cozy and cool, unscarred, unharmed--
That in itself, would have me alarmed--
If it wasn't for the fact that,
Distracted we'd be by someone fat:

Who would this fat man be?
Are you asking? Are you asking me?
Why, it would be unmistakably,
Unquestionably, undoubtedly, Elvis Presley!

That's right, the King, the Big E,
The Memphis Flash, the one and only:
Elvis Presley--believe you me!
For there he'd be in all his glory!

As though Scotty beamed him aboard,
And on his guitar, he'd strike a chord,
His ghost guitar that is, for you see,
An apparition, a phantom, would he be.

For it is a well known fact,
That sometime after his final act,
Elvis Presley, dearly beloved, died,
Kicked the bucket, bit the dust, and many cried.

So it's no surprise that here he'd be,
Among the dead, or in the realm thereof, you see,
For only a ghost can see a ghost,
A skill about which the dead can boast.

What the ghost of Elvis Presley,
Would be doing aboard our ship was, frankly,
Not immediately obvious, no it wouldn't be,
But that question wouldn't be on our minds, no siree.

He'd strum a chord on his guitar, as I said,
And sing a song that'd make you bop your head,
It was certainly the distraction we'd need,
So that, on the flames, our fears wouldn't feed.

He'd sing: "Well, I don't care if the Sun don't shine,
I get my lovin' in the evenin' time,
When I'm with my baby,"
Would this be for real? Well, maybe.

"Well, it ain't no fun with the Sun around,
I get goin' when the Sun goes down,
And I'm with my baby," he'd continue,
A pleasant distraction for me and my crew.

He'd go on playing his song,
While our ship, all along,
Would be delving deeper into the Sun,
But at least we'd be having fun,

"Thank you... thank you v'ry much,"
His gratitude he'd express and such,
After which we'd resume our screaming,
For into the flames we'd still be streaming.

"Woaw! Woaw! Woaw!" the King would yell,
"What's with all the screamin'? Please, do tell."
"Huh?" we'd all turn our heads to look,
As if our attention was grabbed by a hook.

"The screamin', what's with all the screamin'?
With fear and dread, you folks are teamin'.
Are y'all afraid of the flames out there?
'Fraid it might singe your hair?

Don't y'all know y're dead?
That not a hair off y'r purtty little head,
Not a single one'll be burnt away,
No sir, no ma'am, not today.

Not if y're dead like me.
Ghosts, as it were, y'see?
F'r if y're dead, y'can't get more dead--
Nothin' can harm ya, not even flames bright red."

Well, we'd be speechless for sure,
Our utter confusion would be pure,
For all these events, all this chaos,
All the stress, would leave us at a loss,

A loss for how to react,
What to say, how to feel in fact,
But as the captain of the crew,
I couldn't just sit there and stew,

I'd need to take action,
Within seconds or even a fraction,
I'd say the first thing that came to mind:
"Dead did you say? As in, leaving life behind?"

"Yeah, dead," would reply the Big E,
"Passed on, deceased, kicked the bucket, like me--
Or don't y'all know? Aren't you aware?
Heh! Y'ain't, are ya? You folks there.

F'r if we're havin' this conversation,
It means y'ain't on no vacation,
You've gotta be dead, passed on brotha',
Otherwise we couldn't see each otha'."

"OH MY GOD, WE DIED!!!" Immanual would exclaim,
"We died on impact--the Sun is to blame!"
"Nonsense!" Gurtrude would add,
"My good man, have you gone mad?

For if ve vere dead, vouldn't you sink,
Zat quicker zan ze eye can blink,
Our ship would have been destroyed,
By ze Sun, as if hit by an asteroid?"

"Well ma'am," EP would reiterate,
"I can assure you, y're all late,
The late crew of this ship, you are,
Dearly departed in this burning star."

"If this is true," Immanuel would say,
"That we died some time earlier today,
Yet here we still are in our ship,
This kind of gives me a tip,

That, in some strange way,
Our ship died too on this day."
Bill would look perplexed by this idea,
"Don't be ridiculous; even if we said 'see ya,'

To the world earlier today,
Would our ship come with us? Nay!
For it doesn't have a soul,
In fact, the very idea makes me LOL!"

"That, good sir," Mr. Presley would disagree,
"Is folly, a misconception, for y'see,
Everything has a soul, even y'r ship,
F'r I should know--ain't that a trip?!

Though y'r right--at least on this point by-and-by--
That clunky things like ships don't 'die',
But they can pass on, transition, they can skip,
To other dimensions, as though through a rip,

A rip in spacetime that is to say,
And maybe that's what happened earlier today,
Maybe y'all just passed through a rip in space,
Which would certainly save y'r face,

From crashin' into the Sun,
And y'r ship too, hon,
So what that means, boys and girls,
Is that the cause of all these frilly-furls,

This random, confusing, chaotic event,
Is that you must have been sent,
Through a rip in space and time,
Like a wormhole, whether reason or rhyme."

"Wow, Mr. Presley, you sure are smart,"
Sir Martian would say before he'd fart--
An awkward silence would fill the room,
So would a stench like a terrible fume,

"Aaanyway..." I'd break the silence,
"So I guess we're free from harm and violence,
But for how long, Mr. Presley?
How long, heavens to Betsy?!"

"Now, don't you folks worry,
We ain't in no hurry,
All wormholes gotta end,
All wormholes gotta send,

Send whatever they swallow,
Into their spacetime bellies hallow,
Out the other side,
Across the great spacetime divide,

So y'all just sit back and relax,
Don't let the flames tax,
Your nerves and your fears,
Just perk up your ears,

Lemme play y'all somethin' sublime,
Somethin' to pass the time,
Somethin' to ease your mind,
Somethin' to leave your worries behind,

Why, by the time I'm done,
You'll be outa the Sun,
Spat out the other side,
Of this wormhole spannin' wide,

You'll return to your physical bodies,
Back among the livin', among the hotties,
Handsome men and handsome women,
Among all them you'll be swimmin',

So let me ease your troubles,
Make 'em go away like poppin' bubbles,
By playin' y'all a little somethin' somethin',"
And to sing, the King did begin:

"Are you lonesome tonight?"
His voice would be soft and light,
"Do you miss me tonight?"
It'd set our moods just right.

It would be just what we'd need,
As we'd pass through the Sun with speed,
We wouldn't even realize, after a minute,
That the Sun--we'd no longer be in it.

We'd be back out in space,
Still in the wormhole, in any case,
Still in the land of the dead,
Still without a body or a head.

But it wouldn't be too long--
About when EP'd finish his song--
That we'd get spat out,
The wormhole, like from a spout,

And wouldn't you know it--
To fate, we'd owe it--
We'd have gotten out alive--
Literally! Into our bodies we'd arrive,

Back into the world of the living--
Something to praise at Thanksgiving--
For while our bodies would have skipped,
All that space and time (because it was ripped),

And our spirits, our souls,
Would have slipped into their roles,
Now that we'd be in the spacetime continuum,
Our bodies would return from whence they did come.

And we'd be alive once again--
All the women and men--
All except for one, that is to say--
Mr. Presley--who'd seem here to stay--

In ghost form, that is, not in body,
As though he were being naughty--
As though he decided to sneak back,
Even if a body he would lack,

Such a thing should not be allowed,
But here he'd be, that rebel, looking proud,
Looking like he'd broken the rules,
Like staying among the dead was for fools,

"Wow, uh," I'd chuckle, "We're back!
And apparently so are you--that's wack!
For how can it be, Mr. Presley?
How can we still see you so expressly?"

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," he'd say,
"This certainly wouldn't be the first day,
When I'd make an encore, as it were,
A second coming, for sure.

I'm sure y'all heard, haven't ya?
From all the tabloids they've sent ya?
'Bout all the Elvis sightin's?
The one's the papers' bin writin's?

Well, lemme tell y'somethin', girls 'n boys,
Them sightin's true--not just a bunch a' noise--
F'r back to the land of the livin' I come--
Sometimes, on occasion, for a bit a' fun,

So they ain't wrong, them tabloid reports--
Except for this one thing, sports--
They draw the conclusion that I'm still alive,
But as you can see, I'm as dead as a grungy dive.

In any case, it's been a while,
Since I played in style,
For an audience as appreciative as you,
That is to say, this fantastic crew,

And to be honest with y'all,
It's forced me to recall,
Somethin' I've missed 'bout livin',
For too long have I bin' rivetin',

In the warmth of the Sun,
Which, for a while, was fun,
But it's bin' so long,
So long I could write a song,

A song 'bout how I've forgotten--
In fact, my memory's gone rotten--
My memory of the warmth of people,
A warmth so invitin' like a Church steeple,

A warmth more cozy than that of the Sun,
A warmth from which I have for too long run,
But now, playing for you folks,
I remember, for you chicks and blokes,

Have reminded me of how much I love,
Playing for an audience--not just kind of,
But f'r sure, f'r certain,
F'r bein' gone's caused a whole lotta hurtin',

Hangin' 'round the Sun's bin fun,
F'r when y'r life's had a good run,
There ain't much else to do,
And, well, rather than sit and stew,

Hangin' 'round my grave stone cold,
I thought I'd explore places new and old,
And as a ghost, I gotta say,
You can go anywhere, any time, any day,

So it wasn't long before I decided,
By an idea, to be guided,
To check out the Sun,
As a ghost, I thought it'd be fun--

I knew I wouldn't burn,
So from that idea I didn't turn,
I flew straight into the Sun,
And a new era in my life begun,

I enjoyed the lights, I enjoyed the heat,
A paradise like the Sun couldn't be beat,
But I enjoyed it too much, I s'ppose,
I enjoyed it so much I did repose,

In the warmth and the comfort,
With a new home I did consort,
And after a while, I did forget,
Proly for 40 years, I'll bet,

'Bout the value of others,
'Bout all my sisters and borthers,
'Bout my fans, that is to say,
Like you folks, here today.

So I'm glad I met y'all,
Playin' for ya wasn't a bad call,
F'r it's enticed me to stick 'round,
Among the livin', wherever y'r bound."

"Well gee, Mr. Presley, that's swell,"
Sir Martian'd say without making a smell--
Which would be much appreciated,
Unlike last time, which we'd have hated.

"I concur," I'd concur,
"And if, Mr. Presley, sir,
You wish to be inaugurated,
Into our crew, it needn't be debated,

That introductions are in order,
For only introductions will clear the border,
The boundary that is, and other such dividers--
That between insiders and outsiders.

So 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,
Dude, 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 across from that room,
Emitting sounds like: Boom! Boom!
Is the Rockin' Dead,
Allow me to name each head:

First, there's Slate--that's what he said,
Before calling me an elf, that stupid head--
And then there's Duke,
Not Andrew, Steve, or Luke--

Duke, as in Dukes of Hazard, you know--
He plays keyboard in their show.
And then there's their main man Ace--
If you get a chance, look at his pretty face--

All dressed in make up like a cat.
He's the basist? Id'nt dat phat?
And finally, last but not least--
Is Biff, a wicking drummin' beast."

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.

These are just a few,
Of the members of my crew,
But to name the rest,
Would take days at best,

For there's 3,000 members more,
And they're all behind that door,
Each one banging his or her head,
To the sounds of the Rockin' dead."

"Hi y'all," Elvis would say,
"Glad to be on board y'r ship today,
Glad to be among the livin' once more--
For the realm of the dead was becoming a bore."

And thus our crew would be complete--
Well, it would be soon, when we'd meet,
Meet Hubert and Sally, that is to say,
Meet them on Saturn, later today.

But at least we'd be past the Sun--
An ordeal mixed with fear and fun--
It'd be clear sailing from here on in,
Not like where we'd have been.
My thoughts | My art | My music | My poetry

I don't care about income inequality, I care about the idea that there are people who have actual obstacles to success.
-Ben Shapiro

...we hear about the wage gap, the idea that women are paid significantly less than men--seventy two cents on the dollar--that's absolute shear nonesense--it is absolute nonesense--in 147 out of 150 of the biggest cities in America, women make 8% more money than men do in their peer group. That wage gap is growing, not shrinking.
-Ben Shapiro

We're in a situation now where students can go to university and come out dumber than when they went in. They are infantalized by safe space and trigger warning culture, the idea that interogating a new idea, coming into contact with a school of thought or a person that doesn't conform to your prejudices is somehow problematic, that it gives rise to trauma.
-Milo Yiannopoulus

Fuck your feelings, snowflake
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Re: Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Postby gib » Fri Aug 25, 2017 9:14 pm

Finding Saturn would be easy as cake,
A cake that wouldn't take long to bake,
For we'd soon see, in no time at all,
Straight ahead, that great ringed ball,

We'd make our approach with caution,
Flying in low with fashion,
I'd command that we go in orbit,
So the view below, we could absorb it,

Then I'd summon for TG,
"TG!" I'd call out, you see,
"Yes captain," TG would reply,
Poking out his head, looking me in the eye,

"Come stand next to me,"
He'd hop to it quickly,
From Sir Martian's back pack, he'd jump
And onto the floor he'd make a gentle thump,

He'd scurry over with his gnomish feet,
And stand ready to serve next to my seat,
"You see that vast planet out there?"
I'd question as out the window my eyes did stare,

"Why yes, captain--that's Satu'n, I believe--
Unless my eyes deceive me o' I'm totally naive."
"Well, you ain't naive," I'd say,
"For indeed we arrived at Saturn today,

But now a bigger challenge we face,
A challenge we surely need to ace--
What is that challenge, you ask?
How to find our friends who down there bask,

Our friends Hubert and Sally,
For at which venue, down which alley,
Will we find them,
On this wonderful gem?

I summoned you specifically,
Because you can, scientifically,
And with the least amount of doubts,
Deduce, by memory, their whereabouts,

For I gather from the postcard,
That finding them shouldn't be too hard,
So long as we land,
Close to that carny stand,

The one where you landed,
While driving this very ship single handed,
For they couldn't be too far,
Unless they're travelling by car,

From that very spot,
Which I think not--
So we must find this spot,
The very spot where you were caught,

Snatched up by the carny, that is--
Which I'm sure fills you with riz--
So this all depends on you,
And your memory, which I hope remains true."

"Er, well, uh, ee--"
Would reply TG,
"I'll dew my best, captain,
Let me just see what's happenin'

Out the window the'e,
Let me take extua ca'e,
Let me look around the landscape,
On Satu'n, round like a guape.

Hmm... um... nope, not the'e,
Now whe'e did I land, whe'e?
Er, pe'haps ova the'e,
Let me give it a good sta'e.

Mmm... well, on second thought,
New, that isn't the spot,
Now, whe'e else might it be?
Let me just look, let me see.

Weeelll, maybe behind that ferris wheel,
Maybe--I mean, I don't really feel,
Absolutely ce'tain that that's the spot,
In fact, now I'm thinking it's not,

So let me continue to scan,
The su'face of Satu'n as long as I can,"
Bill would roll his eyes,
While Gurtrude would advise:

"Good God, hurry up man!"
"I'm going as fast as I can!"
TG would make Gurtrude feeling hushed,
"These things cannot be rushed!"

So we'd wait and wait and wait,
Until, in the day, quite a bit late,
TG would finally zero in on a spot,
And by that, our focus was caught,

We'd set our course there,
On that spot is where,
We'd aim to land,
Behind the carny stand,

Or so we thought,
Until we arrived at the spot,
And got a pie on the windshield,
Whipped cream pie with bananas that were peeled,

A pie throwing contest, apparently,
Was what we'd have interrupted, evidently,
And it would be my guess,
Judging by the mess,

All over the windshield, you know,
That we'd have intercepted a throw,
And hence ticked a lot of people off,
Which is why they did scoff,

The crowd below, that is to say,
Prompting more pies to come our way,
They'd throw them all--no matter the flavor--
Cherry, apple, or chocolate cookie wafer.

"Activate windshield wipers!"
I'd command, and like snipers,
My crew would act with precision,
Pushing exactly the windshield wiper button,

The mush would be wiped away,
On the windshield it wouldn't stay,
But where one pie would hit,
Another would land like spit,

But it would offer us enough visibility,
To see through the windshield and flee,
Leaving behind an upset crowd,
Shouting "BOO!!!" really, really loud.

So back up in space we would be,
Once again, I would summon TG,
Asking him to try once more,
And again, he'd look to the Saturnian floor.

An hour or two would go past,
Until at last, at last,
TG would recognize another spot,
Hopefully, this time, he'd be mistaken not.

In space, we wouldn't linger,
Right away, we'd follow his finger,
To the spot to which he'd point,
Which would be a quaint looking joint,

In fact, we'd end up in a boudoir,
With all the lights on, not noir,
And so we'd embarrass all the clowns--
That's right--lady clowns in their night gowns,

And their nickers, their underwear,
It'd be hard not to stare.
There they'd be, scampering and scurrying,
Around the room they'd be hurrying,

All with white skin and red noses,
Some big enough to really smell the roses,
Some with funny colored hair,
Like a rainbow landed up there.

Some would be powdering their faces,
Others, tying their giant shoe laces--
That is, before we'd barge in at least,
Quite rudely, unannounced, coming from the East.

Well, I wouldn't know,
Amidst this lady clown show,
Whose embarrassment would be more:
These pour girls, preparing for an encore?

Or us, having no intention,
Of even making the suggestion,
Of invading this boudoir,
On this fine evening, se soir.

Regardless, I'd feel bad,
And at the same time, kinda mad,
Mad at TG, that is to say,
For, once again, leading us astray.

But I'd put that aside for now,
And try to make amends, somehow--
That is, I'd have to apologize--
And I mean seriously, super-size!

I'd turn on the external speaker,
And attempting to make the chaos weaker,
I'd say: "Oh, geez, excuse us ladies,
For barging in like a Mercedes,

Driving aimlessly and out of control,
Or like a pilot taking his toll,
Because his stupid navigator,
Was acting like a forgetful waiter:

Remembering taking orders from a table,
But finding he's completely unable,
To remember where to deliver the food,
And so interrupts customers, being rude.

So I apologize on behalf of my crew,
And in this boudoir, we will no longer stew,
In order that we will no longer aggrieve,
Please allow us to take our leave."

I'd put our ship into reverse, feeling daft,
And backup into the ventilation shaft--
For those would have been his instructions,
TG's that is, before these rude interruptions:

We'd have followed his finger, like I said,
Which would have pointed straight ahead,
Towards a circus tent, or so it would seem,
And as we'd get closer, his finger, like a beam,

Would be pointed at an open vent,
And so it would have been him that sent,
Us into these ventilation ducts,
Into the boudoir, rather than Starbucks.

But now we'd be reversing,
And under my breath, I'd be cursing,
But not for long, for soon we'd be back,
Back up in space for another attack,

I'd give TG another chance;
Would his luck, this time, enhance?
No way, man! Are you kidding?!
For this time, following TG's bidding,

Would wind us up in the Andromeda galaxy,
Certainly far from Saturn and Alex T.,
Alex Trebek, that is, host of Jeopardy,
For it's technically true, and it rhymes, you see.

So once again, we'd back track,
Returning to Saturn for another attack;
This time, I'd figure,
We'd need a mnemonic trigger,

Something to trigger TG's memory,
Not something vague, but solid like emery,
So there I'd sit in my captain's chair,
Thinking, as out the window I'd stare,

I'd look at that boisterous planet,
Thinking of all that did span it--
The rides, the carnies, all the tourists--
Trying to be sure, the surest,

The surest I could be,
On how to jog TG's memory,
When all of a sudden,
Into view, something would come in,

It'd be a planet, I'd think,
Smaller than Saturn, as if it did shrink,
In fact, it'd be more like a moon,
One of 62, which Saturn has--a real boon,

A real turn of luck, for you see,
This sudden appearance, fortunately,
Of this, Titan, Saturn's greatest moon,
Would be our guide very soon,

As soon, that is, as I'd spy,
Someone at the North pole, some guy--
For there at the top would be a man,
A man with a top hat, and a dark tan.

Into a megaphone, he'd be shouting a call:
"Hear ye, hear ye, one and all,
Announcing the union of a lovely couple,
A couple of singles soon to be double:

The union, that is, of Sally and Hubert,
Performed by justice of the peace, Q-Burt--
That's right, from the video game--
For retired is he, thinking it lame,

To spend an entire career jumping down stairs,
And much better is his time spent elsewheres,
Like marrying couples truly in love,
Love so pure like the white of a dove,

So our most beloved video game character--
Q-Burt that is--is marrying, under sunny weather,
A wonderful couple named Hubert and Sally,
So come ye, one and all, and rally,

Rally behind this beautiful couple,
Don't stay still--be supple--
Change your plans, whatever they are,
Whether you're playing cards or at the bar,

Come one and all, come to the wedding,
Of Sally and Hubert, before the Sun starts setting,
Just follow the trail,
The one at my tail,

The trail of rose petals, that is to say,
For once on that path, it'll make your day,
Just follow the path of rose petals,
Follow it until it settles,

On the Saturnian ground,
And then you will have found,
A quaint little chapel, the Marriage Express--
Nothing too formal--it's casual dress--

We're not snobs here on Saturn,
Not a single soul do we turn,
From our fabulous weddings at the Express,
So wherever you're from, don't distress,

Come on down, come on in,
Everyone's invited--a win/win!
So don't be coy, don't be shy,
Just follow the trail--need I ask why?"

Making circles around the man,
The one with a top hat and a tan,
Would be a cute little girl,
In her hair, a cute little curl,

Several curls, in fact, all throughout,
All throughout her hair, no doubt,
She'd be making circles, as I said,
Skipping around the man tanned beat red,

A basket of rose petals, she carry,
Roses colored red, like strawberry,
And she'd take handfuls, as much as she could,
And throw them into the wind, she would,

This would create the trail,
The one spoken of in the man's tale,
By the solar winds, they'd be blown,
Making a trail like a path of stone,

The moon would pass out of view,
And thus, so would the man too,
But in its trail would be a banner,
Waving and flapping, in a sort of manner,

In the solar winds like a flag,
Or like a kite, or like a tag,
Stuck to a shirt or a pair of pants,
But bigger, like a house compared to ants,

It would read: "Special announcement:
Come one and all, witness the pronouncement,
Of Sally and Hubert to be soon united,
In the bond of marriage--you're surely invited!"

Well, I'd remember what the man said,
The one standing atop the moon at its head:
He'd have said to follow the trail,
Of rose peddles, like slime from a snail.

"Follow that trail!" I'd command,
And my crew, ready at hand,
Would know exactly what to do:
With my command, they'd follow through.

They'd kick the ship into gear,
The rockets thrusting from the rear,
And we'd be hot on the trail,
Like a postman delivering mail.

The trail would lead, it certainly would,
To the Saturnian grounds, it's understood,
And once there, it would continue on,
Twisting and winding like a convoluted song,

We'd follow it until on the horizon,
Before the light of the setting Sun,
We'd see it--the Marriage Express--
Tall and white--like a wedding dress.

We'd hover over the parking lot,
Looking for the perfect spot,
To land our ship and disembark,
Eager to reunite before dark,

To reunite with old friends,
To reunite and make amends,
For ever splitting up in the first place,
To see each other again, face to face.

Finding a spot wouldn't be that hard,
It'd be easy as finding your own back yard,
So we'd land and exit the ship,
Glad to be over our long space trip.

There before the setting Sun would stand,
The towering steeple looking grand,
And a song would be heard, I'd swear,
Coming from the church over there.

It'd be a song of beauty, a song of love,
As if it came from the Heavens above,
It'd beckon us forward, to peer within,
For surely that wouldn't be a sin.

The doors would be wide open,
So we'd walk right in hopin',
Hopin' the announcement was right,
That before the alter in full sight,

Our beloved friends would be,
Our beloved friends, Hubert and Sally;
We'd peer inside, all of us would,
Fitting as many heads as we could,

That would be Sir Martian and me,
And of course, TG,
Immanual would peer too,
And of course Icy, all blue.

Even the dogs along with Franky,
Would disembark, bringing a hanky
(It'd be for Franky, you see--
Weddings make him cry, believe you me).

Slate would be there too,
Sticking his head through:
"What's goin' on dudes?" he'd ask,
Mr. Presley would take on the task,

Of answering his question:
"Well, if I can make a suggestion,
I'd reckons it's a weddin'.
Ain' it beautiful with the Sun settin'?"

"I hate weddings," Biff would step in,
With a scowl on his face, a reverse grin,
Ace would reply: "Come on, dude,
Lighten up, chillax, don't be rude."

"I'm not being rude," Biff would retort,
Being defensive, "just delivering a report--
You know, stating a fact,
Don't tell me how to act."

"Chill mate," Duke would react,
"No one's telling you how to act--"
"SHHH!!!" Gurtrude would cut them short.
Immediately, their bickering they'd abort.

"Good call Gurtrude," Bill would say,
"You sure command respect, I must say."
To which Gurtrude would reply:
"I said shush! Need I ask why?"

We'd peer inside, like I said,
Looking at the pews ahead,
There would sit, here and there,
A few carnies, clowns with purple hair,

Some of which were from the lady clown boudoir,
One bopping her head to the singing of the choir,
And contestants from the pie throwing games,
There's also be (I don't know their names),

The rest would be just a small smattering,
Filling the rest of the scattering,
A few passerbies and tourists,
Visitors to Saturn, plus a jurist.

Looking to the alter,
With eyes that don't falter,
I'd see them, our friends,
It wouldn't take a lens,

There'd be Hubert, standing tall,
In a tuxedo fit for a ball,
Looking good, looking handsome,
Looking sharp and then some.

Standing beside him,
Looking lovely and trim,
Would be Sally in a gown so white,
The darkest corners, it would light,

With a radiance so pure,
Hearts would melt for sure,
For she'd be the image of beauty,
Elegant and lovely, a real cutie.

Standing before them would be,
A pyramid of squares, for you see,
There had to be--for if you recall,
That long winded speech and all,

Delivered by the man on the Moon,
Who said that very soon,
There'd be a wedding--
Hurry, before the Sun starts setting--

You'll remember that it'd be Q-Bert,
Who'd be marrying dear Sally and Hubert,
So of course, he'd have to have a pyramid--
I mean, who'd even think of getting rid--

Of the one thing that makes Q-Bert,
The lovable character he is, I do assert.
So down the pyramid Q-Bert would hop,
Until he hit the bottom, he wouldn't stop.

And when that would happen,
When he'd touch ground, he'd start rappin',
And I don't mean singing hip-hop,
I mean a few words he'd drop:

He'd say through his trumpet snout,
Which would mean, no doubt:

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today,
To join in holy matrimony, if I may..."
Yada, yada, yada... all that stuff,
You get the picture--I've said enough.

The formalities would be long and boring,
Causing Immanuel to start snoring,
Especially since all we'd hear,
Would be "wa" and "wo" an "weer".

But it would be beautiful, I must admit,
To see in their eyes that this was it:
Divine love at last, pure and true,
Between two members of my crew.

And finally, it would happen:
Q-Bert would say "Wo-wa-wappin,"
Which would mean: "You may kiss the bride,"
But that's just a guess, I must confide,

I would be right, of course,
For they'd kiss, sealing the anti-divorce,
Everyone would clap and go "Aaawww,"
Including us, for our hearts it did thaw.

A tear would slip down the face of Franky,
As he'd wipe it away with his hanky.
Icy would rest her head on Immanuel's shoulder,
And Immanuel, with his arm, would hold her.

Bill, to Gurtrude, would do the same,
In reaction to which, she'd call him a name:
"Get avay from me, you imbecile!
Vat do you sink zis is, Notting Hill?"

After their passionate kiss,
Sealing this moment of bliss,
The newly weds would turn around,
Thrilled to see what they'd have found.

"Captain Gaby?!" Sally would say,
"Sir Martian?!" would say Hubert today,
"Immanuel?!" Sally would take her turn,
"Icy?!" in Hubert, the memory would burn,

"Bill?!" Sally would recognize,
"Gurtrude?!" Hubert'd say in surprise,
"TG?!" Sally would say at last,
The memories flooding in like a blast.

"Yes, it's us," I'd reply,
"Your old friends, by-and-by."
"AAAHHH!!!" Sally would scream,
As she'd dash like a shooting stream,

Towards us down the isle,
On her face, a gigantic smile.
She'd give Icy a big ol' fat hug,
And say to Immanuel: "Hey, you big ol' lug!"

Hubert would strut right behind her,
Glad to see us too, for sure.
"If it isn't my favorite captain,"
He'd say as I'd respond: "What's happenin'?"

We'd shake hands and embrace,
With a look of joy on each face,
"And if it isn't my good friend Bill,"
With warmth their hearts would fill,

As they'd shake hands and embrace as well,
"Seeing you again sure is swell,"
Bill would reply with a true heart,
"And Sir Martian who works at Wall Mart!"

Sally would say as she hugged him too,
"How are you?! How are you?!"
"Oh, you know," Sir Martian would reply,
"Same ol', same ol', by-and-by."

Then to TG she'd turn her head,
Whose face would turn beat red,
"Still hangin' 'round the ol' gang?"
She'd ask him, in her voice a twang,

"Unfo'tunately so," TG would reply,
"Though, ove' it, I wouldn't cuy,
I would have hoped that, by now,
I would have been home somehow,

But of cou'se, by these blokes,
I'm fo'ced, by some cosmic hoax,
To be duagged along fo' the ride,
But at least, I can hide,

In this back pack, as it we'e
The irony being, to be su'e,
That I'm back exactly whe'e I sta'ted,
On Satu'n--oh, and Si' Ma'tian just fa'ted."

"Oh, not again dude," would say Ace,
Embarrassment showing on Sir Martian's face,
"And Gurtrude," Sally would turn her attention,
About to hug her, but then on reflection,

Would hold out her hand to shake instead.
Gurtrude would hesitate, thinking in her head:
Should I shake, or should I hug?
And finally, the indecision she would shrug:

"Oh!" she would give in,
Hugging Sally so thin,
"I'm sorry, darling," she'd continue,
"For veakness, I hope you don't construe,

Ze tears streaming down my face,
For usually I don't embrace,
Zese sentimental feelings und such,
For I don't give into emotions zat much,

But ze fact of ze matter is,
I missed you, darling, it's true, 't'is,
Und I've come to realize, srough zis ordeal,
Srough zese misadventures so surreal,

Zat I vas wrong, darling, I vaz wrong,
To vine und complain, as zough to a song,
About you dragging me along,
From Uranus to Hong Kong,

Or verever it is you're from,
Darling dear, for not only have I come,
Back to ze place from which I vonce vaz,
But I've been caught in the jaws,

Of a great adventure of learning,
Srough adventures und perspectives turning,
Und it's made me realize, darling,
Zat you did me a favor, young starling,

You introduced me to an incredible crew,
To a wonderful group of people, it's true,
Und razer zan complain, darling, I ought to sank you,
For it is an honor to be part of zis crew."

"Did you just admit that you were wrong?"
Bill would pipe in before long,
But before Gurtrude would reply,
Hubert would ask why:

"Why, Gaby, my favorite captain,
It seems like you've strapped in,
A few extra people to your crew,
Or are they not actually with you?"

I'd chuckle at this comment,
And reply without being hesitant:
"Nah, they're with me, Hubert my man,
Let me introduce you if I can:

With the dogs is Franky, who's been caught,
Wiping from his face the snot,
That's dripping from his nose,
And would otherwise hit his toes,"

"Hey, it's de twenty fiust centu'y,"
Would protest an embarrassed Franky,
"Can' a guy cuy at a weddin',
Wit' de beautiful Sun settin'?"

After which I'd resume:
"Emitting sounds like: Boom! Boom!
Is the Rockin' Dead,
Allow me to name each head:

That there's Slate, taller than an elf,
(But that's the platform shoes if I say so myself),
And that there's his main man Ace,
Who's totally wicked on the base,

And the keyboardist over there,
The one with the wily hair,
Is Duke, keyboardist extraordinaire,
(He also runs a shop: The Scrumptious Donair),

And finally, behind me is Biff, the 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 why Slate's totally debating,
Turning their gig into an ice show--
Seriously, man! Totally, like, y'know--"

"No," would reply Hubert,
"And finally," I'd assert,
"This ghostly figure beside me,
Is the one and only, Elvis Presley.

These are just a few,
Of the extra members of my crew,
But to name the rest,
Would take days at best,

For there's 3,000 members more,
And they're all behind a door,
A door on my ship back there,
Each one with wild and crazy hair,

Each one banging his or her head,
To the sounds of the Rockin' dead.
Usually, that is, when they're playing,
Not now obviously, just saying."

"Greetings!" Hubert would say,
"Hi everyone," Sally would convey,
"And welcome one and all,
To our wedding, each bloke and doll."

Well, it couldn't get any better,
Except, I suppose, if I had a sweater--
I nice sweater, all cozy and warm,
That would keep me snug during a snow storm,

But that wouldn't be the point,
The point'd be that here in this joint,
We'd have found, at long last,
Our good friends whom, in the distant past,

Would have split from us,
Inadvertently, of course, and thus,
Wouldn't have had the faintest clue,
That there'd be a need for a rendezvous.

But none of that would matter now,
For we'd finally be together--WOW!!!
The whole crew--united at last--
In the midst of a wedding--what a blast!!!

Back to the ship we'd go,
Each gal and each bro,
Each to his or her own position,
Each knowing it well with precision,

The doggies, for example,
Would have knowledge more than ample,
That their position was to play,
To play poker night and day,

And Franky too--he'd know--
That his job, in this gong show,
Was to serve snacks and goodies,
To all the dogs wearing hoodies,

And the Rockin' Dead,
Well, they'd know that each head--
Would not bang unless--
And this I must stress--

They actually lived up,
To their name, saying: "S'UP?!
And like the work of a clock,

The crowd would reply:
"YEAY!!!" with a deafening cry,
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!" Slate would taunt,
"WE SAID YEAY!!!" their enthusiasm they'd flaunt,

"WHAT?!?" Slate would drag it on,
"WE SAID YEAY!!!" the game they'd prolong,
^ This response: not a huge shock.

So from the back room,
Would come BOOM, BOOM!!!
As for the rest,
My friends, the best:

Sally, Hubert, Immanuel, and Icy,
Sir Martian and TG, both feeling spicy,
And that amazing duo: Bill and Gurtrude,
And finally the King himself, a ghostly dude,

Well, we'd be packed in tight,
It'd be time to take flight,
Off into the yonder blue,
Into the cosmos once again, it's true.
My thoughts | My art | My music | My poetry

I don't care about income inequality, I care about the idea that there are people who have actual obstacles to success.
-Ben Shapiro

...we hear about the wage gap, the idea that women are paid significantly less than men--seventy two cents on the dollar--that's absolute shear nonesense--it is absolute nonesense--in 147 out of 150 of the biggest cities in America, women make 8% more money than men do in their peer group. That wage gap is growing, not shrinking.
-Ben Shapiro

We're in a situation now where students can go to university and come out dumber than when they went in. They are infantalized by safe space and trigger warning culture, the idea that interogating a new idea, coming into contact with a school of thought or a person that doesn't conform to your prejudices is somehow problematic, that it gives rise to trauma.
-Milo Yiannopoulus

Fuck your feelings, snowflake
-Milo Yiannopoulos
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Re: Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Postby gib » Fri Sep 01, 2017 10:38 pm

At this point, our itinerary,
In the middle of January,
Would be completely open,
And many of us would be hopin',

To get back home, and soon,
So this would be a real boon,
This open ended itinerary,
In the month of January,

So this would decide the matter,
No need to ramble like a mad hatter,
It would be crystal clear,
Where to set our course, my dear,

Once again, we'd have to go,
Passed the Sun, you know,
For just from sheer luck,
Each planet, like a duck,

Would be in order,
Like pennies, dimes, and a quarter,
Lined up in a straight row,
Orbiting the Sun quite slow,

All on the other side,
Of the Sun, across the divide,
All but Saturn, that is,
For in the solar system biz,

Planets can't always be aligned,
But on that matter, never mind,
For we'd have a long trip ahead of us,
Travelling on this crammed space bus.

It'd be a long and boring trip for sure,
Distant memories would fade like a blur,
We'd pass through a bit of rain,
But that would be no bane,

For the windshield wipers we'd activate,
Clearing the windshield at a speedy rate,
I'd rest my cheek against my hand,
Which'd rest against my arm and,

And my arm would rest against my elbow,
And my elbow against my chair, you know.
With my head resting comfortably there,
Through the windshield, I'd stare,

And slowly my eyelids would begin to drop,
Heavy they'd feel, too much to stop,
To stop them from closing tight,
And saying to the crew: good night.

But they wouldn't notice, the crew,
For they'd have ways, it's true,
To preoccupy themselves, to keep awake,
Anything would do for Heaven's sake.

The boys, for example--
That is, Hubert, Bill, and Immanuel--
Plus a mademoiselle--Gurtrude--
Would, without being rude,

Invite themselves to play poker,
With whom you ask? Not Bram Stoker--
You know, the author of Dracula--
And certainly not with a talking spatula,

No, it'd be with the doggies they'd play,
In the back room where they'd stay,
They'd join their game, in other words,
A game for cool dudes, not nerds,

The girls, at least two of 'em--
Sally and Icy--each a gorgeous fem--
Would be sitting together,
Amidst this stormy weather,

Listening to Elvis Presley,
Not some girl named Lesley,
No, The King they'd listen to,
As he'd play them a song or two:

"Wise men say, only fools rush in,"
Their hearts, such words would win,
"But I can't help falling in love with you."
With love struck eyes, they'd sigh, it's true.

And what of Sir Martian and TG?
What'd they be doing, where'd they be?
Why, they'd be banging each head,
To the sounds of the Rockin' Dead.

That's right, in the other back room,
Where the deafening music would resume,
Where the crowd would roar and cheer,
And noise one could definitely hear,

TG, poking his head from the back pack,
Would be raising his arm in the darkness black,
And the rock 'n roll sign, he'd make,
Saying, "Rock 'n roll, dude!" to a guy named Jake.

And if that weren't all, dear reader,
There'd be other fans, like Peter,
Or Stacy, Toby, and Jimmy,
Who'd be up here with me,

That is, taking a break from banging head,
Loitering by the coffee machine instead,
With pierced noses and tattoos on their skin,
And goth makeup, whether fat or thin.

Needless to say, they all had stuff,
To fill the time of which there'd be enough,
But not I, not me,
I'd be so bored I couldn't see.

For I'd be falling asleep, as I said,
Wishing I could be in bed,
And my eyes, I couldn't keep 'em open,
For this trip to end, I'd be hopin'.

And eventually, I'd be overtaken,
A slumber from which I wouldn't awaken,
Would hit--it would hit hard--
I shoulda' used my Starbucks card.

A pleasant dream I'd have, no doubt,
But for how long I'd have been out,
There'd be no way of telling,
Until the girls would start yelling!

Sally and Icy, that is,
They'd shake me with rizz,
Until I'd wake up to see,
Right in front of me,

A snowy planet out the windshield,
We'd be going too fast, I couldn't yield,
We'd be knocked hip to hip,
From the impact to our ship,

It's belly bouncing and skipping,
Like a rock on water--you ain't tripping--
You heard me right, we'd be crashing,
But not straight on, like into a pool splashing,

No, we'd come in at an angle,
Over that, there'd be no wrangle,
After skipping and bouncing a bit,
We'd start sliding, nothing to hit,

And as if things couldn't get worse,
We'd start spinning, to be terse,
We'd start spinning 'round and 'round,
On this lost planet just now found.

Inside, we'd be jostled and thrown about,
Hot dogs buns, ketchup, and Sauerkraut,
Would cover Franky and the each dog,
Thank goodness there was no eggnog,

Needless to say, in the next room,
The show would meet an abrupt doom,
For in this situation, you just can't play,
No sirree, no you can't, no way,

You can certainly crowd surf, however,
Not on purpose, of course, how could you ever?
But the centrifugal force of our spinning ship,
Would cause everybody to crash, fall, and slip,

And soon everyone would crowd surf--
That's right--here on this very turf--
Everyone on top of everyone,
Weighing well over a ton.

As for me and the girls,
We too would be sent in swirls,
Thrown all around the cockpit--
Oh, how we'd wish to just sit.

But no, we'd bounce off the walls,
And off each other like ragged dolls,
Mr. Presley, meanwhile,
Would look around with a smile.

Amusing would he find the whole show,
Our ship spinning 'round amidst snow,
For as a spirit, as a vaporous ghost,
We'd pass through him like bullets through toast,

In fact, he'd just be floating there,
Nothing on him disturbed, not even a hair,
For the forces of physics don't work,
On those whom in the land of the dead do lurk.

Well, despite our sudden distress,
We would begin to slow, more or less,
In fact, our ship would come to a stop,
Against this snowy, icy, dark backdrop,

"Oh, I'm gonna barf," Sir Martian would groan,
"Oh, my head," TG would moan,
"I think I incurred anothe' cuack.
Please look, won't you, at my back?"

"Cap'n!" Franky's voice would boom,
Over the intercom into this room,
"Cap'n, is evuyting OK? What happened, mate?"
I'd try to shake my head from this dizzy state,

And stammer for a reply,
"Uh, er, hi Franky, hi,
Uh, well, what happened was,
Uh, we crashed because... because..."

"He fell asleep at the wheel,"
On me, Sally would squeal,
I'd retort: "Thanks Sally,
I was just about to say that, r'aly.

But anyway, Franky, it's true,
And right out of the blue,
We crash landed on this here planet,
And by the looks of it, snow and ice do span it.

From what I can tell,
The ship seems to be doing well,
All vital signs are working normally,
All functions check out, speaking formally,"

"Yeah?" Frank would reply,
"You call dis normal? Why?
Why, when de dogs and I,
Pwus yo' fueinds are in a pig sty,

Hot dogs and pepperoni,
Li'l pieces of baloney,
Pwus pizza slices and cheesy nachos,
Cove' us from our heads to our toes."

Before I would even have a chance,
To address their stain covered pants,
The Rockin' Dead would emerge,
Like the next room over had to purge,

Sir Martian would tag along,
Between Ace and Biff looking strong,
And wherever Sir Martian would go,
TG would too, don't you know?

"Yo, whatup, cap'n dude?
I mean, I don't mean to be rude,
But yer drivin's kinda chafin' our show--
WOOOAAAW!!! Look at all the snow!"

Would say a distracted Slate,
Looking out the window a bit late,
And when finally I'd have a chance to talk,
I'd explain why we were on this icy rock:

"Attention everyone! This is your captain,"
I'd say over the intercom, "What's happenin'?
We seem to have crashed landed,
On a desolate planet that's padded,

Padded with snow and ice,
Which, on a hot day, would be nice,
But today is not a hot day,
And frankly, if I may,

I'd rather be anywhere but here,
On a day like today, you hear?
And so would you, I'm sure,
To be out of this blizzardy blur.

So I must apologize,
I mean, big time, super-size,
For it seems that--oh, I don't know--
I kinda, sorta, a short while ago,

Fell asleep at the helm,
I mean, the boredom did overwhelm,
And when these two lovely ladies,
Woke me from a dream 'bout the 80's,

It was too late to stop,
And on the ground we did flop,
And that explains, I hope,
Why you all had to cope,

With the disturbance of late,
With the messy chaotic state,
Of relish and mustard from head to toe,
And a rock concert that just won't go,

Now I'm not quite sure,
Since it's all a big blur,
Which planet we're on,
But upon me it does don,

That that guy there proly does know,
The one I see out the window,
Why, he seems to be warming up,
By a fire sipping from a cup,

No doubt, something hot,
Like hot coco or coffee--or maybe not.
Why don't we step out to meet him,
Say hi, be polite, and greet him?"

Indeed, there'd be a man,
Parked just outside our space van,
Only a few yards away,
By a fire, he'd stay,

In a space suit, he'd be,
The NASA logo, I could see,
Hidden would be his face,
Under his helmet of space.

We'd therefore be perplexed because,
We'd have no idea who this strange man was,
Which would be all the more reason,
To say hello in this winter season.

We'd all step outside,
No member of the crew would hide,
Well, except maybe the fans,
Those who liked rock bands,

They would stay inside,
To await another musical ride,
But the rest of us, my crew and I,
Would approach the man to say hi.

"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.

This is Teddy and there's Immanuel, and that,
NASA dude, is Icy, Queen of Mars--isn't that phat?!
The dogs were in the back room,
Their game, they will soon resume,

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,
There's Franky, who's usually caught,

Making snacks with his hot dog stand,
Which the doggies eat from his hand.
And this is the Rockin' Dead,
Allow me to name each head:

First, there's Slate--that's what he said,
Before calling me an elf, that stupid head--"
"Hey!" Slate would shout,
"Ruuude," Duke would below out,

"And that there's his 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, the 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 why Slate's totally debating,

Turning his gig into an ice show—
Seriously, man! Totally, like, y'know—
And that's Sir Martian--betcha didn't know that--
But these 3 behind me are where it's really at:"

"Dude," 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.
And finally, this ghostly figure beside me,
Is the one and only, Elvis Presley.

These are just a few,
Of the members of my crew,
But to name the rest,
Would take days at best,

For there's 3,000 members more,
And they're all behind that door,
And behind that door, there's another,
That's where they are--each sister and brother--

Each one banging his or her head,
To the sounds of the Rockin' Dead.
Or at least they were a second ago,
Before the Rockin' Dead paused their show."

"Why, hello there strangers,"
Would say the man sensing no dangers--
Seeing that in peace we come,
And stood up, getting off his bum.

"Please, have a seat,
This warm fire can't be beat,
Not in this cold weather,
Come, let's talk together."

We'd accept the invitation,
Feeling welcomed to this new nation,
And sat around the fire,
Radiating a heat we'd desire.

"So," he'd continue, "if I may ask,
What brings you by? Was it a task?
A mission? Did NASA send you?
Did they? You and your crew?"

"No, we're not from NASA," I'd reply,
"We're travelers from beyond the sky,
We're from all over the solar system,
Left our homes, good-bye we kissed 'em,

Each one of us, from a different place,
From a different planet out there in space,
From different backgrounds, different cultures,
Like different animals: lions, turtles, and vultures,

Just to name a few,
Yep, it's a pretty motley crew,
That in my travels I've acquired,
Of them, I could never get tired."

"Except, like, just now,"
Icy would say, "I mean, that's how,
We totally crash landed,
You, like, fell asleep single handed."

"Which reminds me," I'd continue,
"You wouldn't know, would you?
Which planet we're on?
And from Earth, how far gone?"

"Why, of course I'd know,"
Would say the NASA bro,
"You're on Pluto,
Hence all the snow.

Alas, I think it's gone astray,
For just the other day,
I felt a massive impact,
Like something massive hit: WACK!!!

All I felt were the tremors,
But they sure were, I remembers,
Quite powerful, I tell you,
Just like that--out of the blue.

And it sent poor Pluto,
Out of orbit, you know,
Streaming off into deep space,
You listening to me, Ace?"

"Uh, yeah man, I'm listening,"
Would say Ace, his studs glistening,
The one's on his gothic attire,
Glistening from the raging fire.

"So yeah, out of orbit,
And as if a sponge did absorb it,
Into deep space, it got sucked,
From the solar system it was plucked,

And unfortunately, it would seem,
Deeper into space, we still stream,
This is a one stop train, boys and girls,
More like a no stop train, or so it unfurls.

This is why I'm stuck here,
Abandoned on Pluto, you hear?
I was supposed to rendezvous,
With my assistant, it's true.

She was just on a coffee run,
And to get soup in a bun,
From a local Tim Horton's around noon,
You know, the one near Neptune?

But then it hit--the impact,
As though Pluto was attacked,
As though hit with a baseball bat,
But much bigger than that,

Something huge must have hit,
Like a planet-sized peach pit,
And sent Pluto astray,
That's how I ended up here today."

"My my," would reply Immanuel,
"That is a sad, sad tale you tell."
"Indeed," Icy would add,
"It is very, very sad,

But, like, oh my God!
Tell me if this is, like, too odd:
We could, you know, invite him aboard,
Like, take him home, if room we can afford."

"Hmm," I would reply,
"Interesting idea, that's no lie,
But you've hit the nail on the head,
Icy, my dear, for when you said:

'If room we can afford,'
I said to myself: Oh my Lord,
What if we don't have room?
What if our ship can't consume,

A single person more?
Would he fit through the door?
Or worse yet, what if she explodes?
Our poor ship, taking too many loads?"

"Oh, please, good captain,
If only I could be packed in,
And thereby be taken home,
I would sing your praises to Rome,

Why, I'm sure we can make more room,
Maybe clean out the dust with a broom,
I mean, dust can be a real space hog,
Or maybe clear out the captain's log,

You know, those logs take a lot of space,
On the hard drive, that is, which we can erase,
But if you don't like that, that's fine,
Let's put our heads together, yours and mine.

Whatever we come up with, whatever idea,
I'll put your name in the encyclopedia,
Or roast you marshmallows on this fire,
Or whatever your heart does desire,

You name it, it's yours,
To my wealth, you have open doors,
For I've got plenty, wealth that is,
For I run a pretty lucrative biz,

Back home on Earth, and that's no lie,
Plus I'm an extremely important guy,
I know people, I have connections,
Some with weird facial complexions,

People respect me back home,
Like the emperor of Rome,
I'm just that awesome,
Like a really cool possum."

Intrigued I'd be by these words,
So just to confirm what I'd have heards,
I'd ask him in a tone soft and mellow:
"Who are you, strange fellow?"

He'd then take off his helmet,
To reveal who we'd have just met,
It'd have shocked me enough to jump,
For it'd be none other than Donald Trump:

"Yes, boys and girls, it's me,
The 45th president of the United States, you see,
But my story's still true,
I'm still marooned here with you.

And to reward you, I'm still prepared,
So please, don't be scared,
To make room aboard your ship,
For I do need to get home in a blip,

I've got a rendezvous in China,
With Xi Jinping--he likes to wine and dine ya--
And then there's the Russian ambassador,
And also the one from El Salvador,

I booked a meeting with them in Washington, DC,
To sign a trade agreement--for they did agree--
They agreed to trade a shirt--one each--
For a scrumptious delicious peach--

Very important deal, that one,
That peach is worth a fortchun',
Which is why I just gotta go,
Back home, drink a Mott's Clamato."

"Excuse me, Mr. President,"
Mr. Presley's words would've went,
"Hi, Mr. President, sir,
Elvis Presley's the name, as it were,

Pard'n f'r askin', on behalf of me 'n my mates,
But what's the president of the United States,
Doin' on a planet so far from home,
On a planet cold as a tomb?"

"That's a good question, Mr. Presley,
Allow me to answer it thusly:
I have a deep, dark secret, I do,
I keep from Americans, it's true,

And there's no way I can ever reveal it,
Except to you guys who around the fire sit
--I mean, sure I just met you,
But you've proven your loyalty, it's true--

Anyway, this secret of mine--
Keeping it hidden is fine,
But once in a while, at least,
I've gotta let it out, like a wild beast.

So I pick a far away place,
A getaway out in deep space,
Like a timeshare in Bermuda,
Where they serve cheese like Gouda.

A place where I can relax,
Though it cost many dollars of tax,
But I'm the President, the people owe me,
Isn't that right, Icy? Don't you agree?"

"Uh-huh!" would agree Icy, queen of Mars,
"The only person, out amongst the stars,
Who knows about my secret--
A person who can really keep it--

Is my assistant who went on a run,
To get coffee--not just for fun--
For whenever I need her,
I call her up and meet her,

And we get our old NASA space suits,
Along with our old NASA space boots,
And we sneak into NASA,
Saying to security: 'Que pasa?'

(They're Mexican, you see.)
And from pockets behind the knee,
We whip out our fake IDs--
Getting through is a breeze--

And we sneak aboard a rocket,
Putting our IDs back in our pocket,
And take off without them knowing,
How they don't? That's mind blowing.

But it works--every time--
And like stopping on a dime,
She takes me exactly where I want to go,
Safely to the grounds of Pluto.

Now, typically, I begin with this:
Setting up a fire that goes sparkle and hiss,
While she runs off to get coffee,
And if I've been extra good--some toffee;

Once I get all cozy and warm,
That's when I show my true form,
A special feature that I bear--
Don't worry, it's not my back hair--

No, it's something else entirely,
The secret that would've gone virally,
And caused a whole lotta mirth,
If I exposed it back on Earth,

And I was just about to do that,
To expose myself, starting with my hat--
My space helmet, that is to say--
So why don't I do the rest right away."

Trump would proceed to stand,
And remove his clothes with each hand,
We'd flinch in reaction to this alarm,
Shielding our faces, each with one arm,

We'd shriek in anticipation,
Going "AAAH!!!" without hesitation,
Bracing ourselves to be scarred by this gent,
At the sight of a naked president.

He'd remove his top,
Revealing chest hairs, like a mop,
Then came the bottom half;
Would we cry or would we laugh?

Once he'd be completely peeled,
His secret would finally be revealed,
It turns out, as we'd verily see,
That a mermaid, Trump would be.

He'd flop to the ground,
For by gravity he'd be bound,
After all, with a flipper for a leg,
Who wouldn't fall like Humpty the egg?

"That's right, girls and boys,"
Trump would continue making noise,
"I, the President of the United States,
Am a mermaid--you saw it here first, mates.

Don't be fooled by this here leg,
For it's more like a wooden peg,"
He'd pick up his NASA suit by the left knee,
Inside, a mechanical limb, we'd see.

"This leg's a dud, you see,
I put it on each morning, before tea,
In my right pant leg, my fin does go,
No one's the wiser, for it really doesn't show.

Now, whadya say, captain Gaby,
May I board? Please don't say maybe,
You must understand, I'm an important guy,
As president, need I ask why?

The fate of the world rests on my shoulders,
So like a team of good soldiers,
It is your duty to safely get me home,
At least, do it for the gnome."

"Er, uh, well," TG would reply, like a chump,
"I'm flatte'ed you'd be so conce'ned, Mr. Trump,
But how it would benefit me,
Is, to be honest, a bit of a mystury."

"No matter," I would finally say,
"This, Mr. President, is your lucky day,
We'll find room on board our ship,
Even if I have to make room with my hip,

Why, what could be more important,
Than making a long trip shortened,
Because the President of the United States,
Needs to get to the home he loves, not hates?"

So then it would be decided,
The President of the States United,
Would be the latest inaugurated member,
Into our crew since September.

He would be heard mumbling,
As we'd make our way to our ship stumbling:
"Hey guys, you wouldn't happen to carry,
An aquarium--preferably not scary--

Scary 'cause it's filled with sharks,
I hate sharks--their bites leave marks--
And can somebody help me along?
I'm afraid my fins aren't that strong."

Rex and Sparky would give Trump a hand,
Across the snow covered land,
And lift him aboard our ship,
Strapping him in for our home bound trip.

It would be a challenge, sealing the door,
Though we'd manage, it'd be an arduous chore,
Like I'd have said, room would be scarce,
If only we'd have a terrace.

Not to mention, we'd be getting heavy,
But that, I suppose, is the levy,
That one pays to have a new member aboard,
Nonetheless, we'd cut gravity's chord.

We'd make it up to space before long,
But that's when something would seem wrong,
The ship would start creaking,
As if the walls were speaking,

Saying: "Oh, I'm so full!"
It would feel like a raging bull,
The ship, that is, for it'd be shaking,
Like the Earth when it's quaking,

As if it were full of rage,
About to burst from a cage,
Like a wild beast you can't contain,
No time soon would the pressure wane,

And then it would happen: BOOM!!!
We'd explode--now there'd be room--
The infinite room of space,
Oh man, the look on my face!

Off into space, we'd be launched,
Like being sacked in the paunch,
Each in different directions we'd go.
Where we'd be destined--no one would know.
My thoughts | My art | My music | My poetry

I don't care about income inequality, I care about the idea that there are people who have actual obstacles to success.
-Ben Shapiro

...we hear about the wage gap, the idea that women are paid significantly less than men--seventy two cents on the dollar--that's absolute shear nonesense--it is absolute nonesense--in 147 out of 150 of the biggest cities in America, women make 8% more money than men do in their peer group. That wage gap is growing, not shrinking.
-Ben Shapiro

We're in a situation now where students can go to university and come out dumber than when they went in. They are infantalized by safe space and trigger warning culture, the idea that interogating a new idea, coming into contact with a school of thought or a person that doesn't conform to your prejudices is somehow problematic, that it gives rise to trauma.
-Milo Yiannopoulus

Fuck your feelings, snowflake
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Re: Gabriel's Space Odyssey

Postby gib » Fri Sep 15, 2017 9:02 pm


Well, I would know,
I'd know where they'd go,
Their stories, I will tell,
So listen carefully, listen well:

Sir Martian would finish school,
Easy 'cause he ain't no fool,
He'd get a diploma to prove he's smart,
And therefore quit his job at Wall Mart.

He'd set his sights high,
Quite the ambitious little guy,
Searching for a job worth its salt,
One that called for a bigger bank vault.

He'd remember Gurtrude's offer,
A job to surely fill his coffer,
She'd have said, if you recall,
On Uranus, that great garbagy ball,

To call her up once he'd graduate,
To work for her and to not wait,
So hoping it would still be on the table,
Sir Martian would take the offer, willing and able,

That is--willing to work, able to do so--
And like a Martian Robinson Cruso,
He'd board a ship, and soon arrive,
On Uranus, and then beneath the surface dive,

And at the core, meet Gurtrude, who'd be thrilled,
For in math, Sir Martian would be skilled;
High school level math, that is to say,
But Martian math it would be, by the way,

Quite the math program, they'd have on Mars,
Which would qaulify one anywhere amongst the star,
But Gurtrude, that lucky girl,
Would get Sir Martian, quite the pearl,

Head of engineering, she'd make him,
With benefits to boot, plus a gym,
A wise choice it'd be indeed,
Fulfilling a very important need.

Together, a marvel they'd engineer,
Something to win an award this year,
Ten times better than that other thing,
The booster rocket built last Spring,

This thing would be amazing,
For it would pack an extra sting,
The power of warp speed, it'd feature,
Making Uranus one speedy creature,

All over the galaxy, would they go--
Sir Martian and Gurtrude, that is, and so--
So determined would be their destiny--
If there's a better fate, I can't think of any.

So let me move onto Billy,
His fate would be rather silly,
By another bubble of snot,
Would poor Bill be caught.

From which planet it would have came,
That planet I just couldn't name,
For I wouldn't know at all,
Maybe PSR B1620-26 b would be a good call.

But in any case,
Planted would be Bill's face,
Planted in a ball of snot,
But would he despair? I think not?

For you know how snot balls are,
At least the ones between each star,
The interstellar snot balls I mean,
The ones colored yellow and green.

And like the one from before,
Bill would sink deep into the core,
And the very same process--
That is to say: osmosis--

Would happen to Bill,
While he'd remain still,
Cozy in the warm goop,
Of slimy, snotty soup.

And just as before,
He'd be told tales of lore--
The snot bubble would tell him--
As it would course through every limb.

A tour of the universe, Bill would get,
To everywhere, their course would be set
They'd cruise around galaxies, nebulas, and stars,
They'd see black holes, worm holes, and quasars.

Not a bad fate, I'd have to say,
Not bad at all, at the end of the day,
And now if we turn our attention,
To Immanuel and Icy, here's the lesson:

Skateboards are the best,
A lot better than the rest,
Better than bikes and roller blades,
Better than snowboards, better in spades,

That's why Icy, our beloved queen,
Would turn Mars to skateboardocracy, I mean,
A planet ruled by the skateboard champion,
Whoever'd win the annual skateboarding competition,

The following year, it'd be Gord,
Who, after winning the skateboarding award,
Would be christened, by Icy herself--
Not me, Gaby, small as an elf--

Ruler of Mars, at least for the year,
And what about Immanuel, Icy's faithful peer?
Icy would teach him a thing or two,
About the art of skateboarding, it's true.

She'd teach him the front flip, the back flip,
He'd even fall and hurt his hip,
But that'd be okay, that'd be fine,
He'd get back up before counting to nine.

He'd practice, practice, and practice some more,
No matter how hard he'd hit the half-pipe floor,
Until one day, he'd be ready,
On his skateboard, he'd be steady,

Steady and ready for the competition,
In Icy's eyes, there'd be a great vision,
A vision of how her dear friend,
Would, at the competition's end,

Be christened ruler of Mars,
Under the night time stars.
This vision would come true,
And though it would be new,

New to Immanuel, that is to say,
It would last not a single day,
Longer than one full year,
And what would he do? Drink beer?

Play games? Watch TV? Sleep all day?
No way, man, no way.
Immanuel, that brilliant philosopher,
Would be the best ruler Mars'd have to offer,

Why, do you wanna know what he'd do?
He'd build a water park colored blue.
Then he'd build two more, then three,
With signs that'd say: "Don't pee!!!"

Then he'd build an amusement park,
With rides that glow in the dark,
For they'd run even in the night,
With a neon glow shining bright.

He'd build all sorts of crazy things,
Things that'd bring in Earthlings,
And other tourist from the solar system,
Even pitting Saturn against him,

In a friendly game of competition:
To win more tourists, they'd each be wishin',
A good year it'd be for Immanuel and Icy,
Which would make their relationship extra spicy.

Now what about Hubert and Sally?
Well, they certainly wouldn't dilly-dally,
Right away, they'd have kids-a-plenty,
How many you ask? At least twenty.

And then they'd buy an SUV,
Equipped with wings, you see,
Plus a big fat booster rocket,
And of course, keys with which to lock it.

They'd go on many-a-family-vacations,
Which would bring joy and elation,
The kids would watch their cartoons,
While they'd head for Jupiter's moons,

Io would have excellent camping sites,
Many parks to run and fly kites,
Beautiful it would be this time of year,
With much wildlife: elk, moose, and dear.

Then they'd hop over to Europa,
Where there'd be a shower with soapa--
You know, 'cause when you're camping,
Sometimes soap tends to be lacking,

But on Europa, there'd be soap--
Thus a stinky man would have hope--
There'd also be a shower--one lone shower--
The only thing there, standing like a tower.

And what about Elvis Presley?
Would he marry a girl named Lesley?
No, instead he'd hatch a plan:
It would be wild and crazy, man.

The world of the living, it turned out,
Would be so fun that, without a doubt,
He'd want to share it with his friends,
You know, all the dead dudes, Toms and Jens,

And all sorts of other names,
Like Steve, Martha, or James,
So he'd float his way back,
Into space to where space did lack,

That is, where the worm hole was,
And diving into it would cause,
Mr. Presley to return,
To the Sun which would burn,

But not him, not he,
Free from harm he'd be,
For I needn't explain why,
I needn't explain, need I?

Back in the realm of the dead,
The Big E would use his head,
To figure out where they'd be,
All his friends, from A to Z.

He'd take his time, he would,
He'd take his time as he should,
He'd search to the farthest region,
Until he'd gather a whole legion,

Of friends and loved ones,
There'd be a lot, tons,
Among them, he'd gather a few musicians,
Not engineers, not athletes, not physicians,

Musicians--musical geniuses, that is,
Friends who would join him in show biz--
He'd form a band, in other words,
A band of cool dudes, not nerds.

First, there'd be Sebastian Back,
His talent, I would not knock,
Mr. Back would know how to jam,
For if you heard him, you'd say "daaamn!"

Sebastian Back was a musical composer,
Not a fool, not a hoser,
A composer who lived 300 years ago,
For kings and queens, he'd put on a show.

And now Elvis would have him in his band,
Such a decision would certainly stand,
For to have a genius, as Bach would be,
Would disappoint neither you nor me,

Next, he'd recruit Michael Jackson,
For if there's one person, my son,
That a band should not lack,
It's the Jackson dude, Mac.

Now, some of you might be too young,
To recall Mr. Jackson and how he sung,
But he was another one of these types--
Geniuses, I mean--like Wesley Snipes--

I mean, Snipes is a genius for sure--
His acting skills are true and pure--
He's more or less the equivalent,
Of Jackson in terms of acting talent,

The only difference being, of course,
Snipes is alive and, though we remorse,
Jackson's dead, much like Bach and the King,
Though in this story, music they'd still bring,

That is, as soon as Mr. Presley,
Would recruit them into his band expressly,
For the purpose of rekindling,
Like a long lost sibling,

The joy of playing for a live audience,
And I mean live--fans that'd have tolerance--
For music from the realm of the dead--
Not just tolerance, but something worth banging head,

And of course, Presley could never achieve this--
This music playing, head banging, bliss--
If it weren't for Tupac Shakur,
I mean, Tupac would be an asset for sure,

If one had the band-forming ambition,
And a bit of superstition,
That Tupac would be the key,
Then believe you me,

One would bring Tupac back,
From the dead and then--SMACK!!!
Place him right into the band,
Such that he could lend a hand,

In bringing the band to excellence,
Certainly not to a form of pestilence,
But excellence--that is greatness--
From musicians who've undergone lateness.

For he too did pass away,
Quite sad, if I may,
For we will miss him ever more,
Especially seeing his pic at the music store.

But not in this story,
For in this tale, it's more gory,
At least in terms of the living dead,
In fact, it'd be the best thing since sliced bread,

In fact, my good friends, in fact,
They'd almost be attacked--
Presley and the Ghostly Ghouls, that is--
That'd be their name in the music biz--

They'd be attacked, metaphorically speaking,
Just as their fame would be peaking,
Metaphorically, that is, as in a law suit,
Plus a few nasty words to boot,

Who would sue them, you ask,
Answering that is an easy task:
It would be none other than,
Our good friends The Rockin' Dead, man!

I needn't explain why, do I?
Two bands with the same act, by-and-by?
Well, you can't just have that, no way!
Two bands of dead people? Not today!

Each band would have a good case--
The Rockin' Dead, in their place,
Came first--they were the original,
While Presley and the Ghostly Ghouls, were vestigial,

But on Presley's side was this:
In case anyone would miss,
They really were the rockin' dead--
An open and shut case--'nough said.

But they'd settle on a compromise,
Something their lawyers would advise--
That they'd join together,
In order to calm the stormy weather,

The hurricane that the lawsuit would become,
That would brew if they'd sit on their bum,
Stubbornly not budging an inch,
Though a little bending would be a cinch,

Joining together in a band of eight,
Would cause all their troubles to abate,
And they'd name themselves: Presley and Slate,
And the Rockin' Deadly Ghostly Ghouls, Mate.

Their awesome sounds and their wicked vocals,
Would attract old fans and a few locals,
Soon doubling the size of their audience,
And tripling the noise, not the silence,

Together, they'd be a force with which to be reckoned,
To mess with them, you wouldn't think for a second,
That's why they took the rock scene by storm,
And soon set the standard, the norm.

Now what about our good friend Mr. Gnome?
Well, he too would return back home.
But not on his own accord, no way,
For he'd prefer, on this day,

To travel the cosmos, near and far,
To explore every planet and star,
But he'd be persuaded to return to Earth,
By a hefty offer, for what it's worth,

That offer came from our good friend,
From he with a fish tale for a rear end--
Mr. Trump, that is to say,
The President of the United States today.

For a rare opportunity, did Trump spot,
An opportunity that was red hot,
For what TG would represent to him,
Would be a chance to reveal his limb,

His one fishy limb, that is to say,
To reveal his scaly bottom, if I may,
For the idea would be, according to Trump,
To use this gnome short as a stump,

To reveal to the press on his behalf,
The truth of which he'd fear a laugh--
A laugh on behalf of all Americans,
Laughing at his fishy shenanigans.

But if TG were to announce this grim reality,
Trump could leverage deniability,
If the American people would react favorably,
Trump would confirm the rumors quite ably.

But if not, if the worst,
Then Trump could say: "Cursed!
Cursed be this Travelocity Gnome!
For spreading rumors throughout our home--

That is, throughout the USA,
Not the United Kingdom or Canada, eh?
But spreading false info in the homeland!
For this, we will not stand!

Let me make this crystal clear,
See this leg? See it right here?"
Trump would knock 3 times under his rear,

"This is the real deal,
A real leg, not like a seal,
Not like a dolphin or a fish.
You think I'm a mermaid? Ha! You wish!"

But on the other hand,
If the people, as a united band,
Would group together to voice their support,
On behalf of Trump and his fishy sort,

Then Trump could say this:
"Yes, it's true, for TG does not miss,
Even that which I keep hidden,
But now is the time for secrets to be ridden:

To reveal my deep dark secret,
I might as well admit it,
Indeed I have, as this gnome claims,
Something in common with fishes, something the sames:

Indeed it is true: I am, in every respect,
A mermaid--yes, me, the President whom you did elect.
Hope you're all right with it, hope you're OK,
But if not, too bad, I'm the President anyway."

Either way, TG would get his wish,
From Mr. Trump--half man, half fish--
For this would be the deal,
His promise to TG, for real:

That if TG spread the rumor,
If Trump's plan he would humor,
Trump would reward him handsomely,
A reward worth a fortune, financially,

He would help TG sneak into NASA,
And say: "Pick whichever one pleases ya',"
Referring to the rockets galore,
Each one with which to soar,

Into the clouds up there,
And then, in outer space, to anywhere,
But only one could TG choose,
And with options like this, he couldn't lose.

"I'll take that one," a decision he'd make,
His blessing, Trump would give him, without mistake,
And see him off into the cosmos vast,
Until only a memory in the distant past,

TG would become in Mr. Trump's mind,
Grateful for making his fishy behind,
Socially acceptable in America today,
For who could hate a mermaid, eh?

So now you know their stories,
Their pitfalls and their glories,
The members of my crew, that is to say,
But a few more stories remain, if I may,

Those of Franky and the dogs,
Both worth a couple blogs--
To be recorded on the internet, that is,
For the public to read--their story and his--

Franky, that is, but his story I'll tell next,
For that of the doggies, I just gotta text--
I mean, if I had an iPhone,
But I'm only 2--so throw me a bone--

So I have to settle for this,
Telling stories from that which does kiss--
I mean my lips, if you will,
From my lips does my story spill.

And, well, here they go, these lips of mine,
Telling the doggies' story, all 5 I'll combine:
Long story short,
To Earth they'd return, and consort,

They'd consort together,
To consider whether,
Now was the time to make a difference,
To do something of great significance,

For things on Jupiter were quite stable,
They could play poker as much as they'd be able,
But returning to Earth--well, it just wasn't the same,
They'd have to deal with things of great shame,

The shame of being reduced to pets,
Being treated like animals, taken to vets,
Not real doctors, like humans are worth,
For born into doggihood from birth,

Would be the doggy clan,
Which wouldn't be their fault, man,
So what did they do,
To deserve to stew,

In such a degrading state,
Of being lesser, or at any rate,
Being treated as lesser,
Like being forced into a compressor,

A compressor that would shrink them down to size,
To their, and the rest of doggihood's, demise,
Metaphorically, that is to say,
I mean, not in a real compressor, no way!

The point is, they'd feel pressured, reduced,
By humans who would roost,
Over them and other animals,
Some of which they'd eat, like cannibals,

Lucky for them, however,
Humans don't eat dogs, never,
But it would serve their cause nonetheless,
For in the fight for dignity, it pays to stress,

The plight of those other than you,
The plight of those who,
By a common enemy, are suppressed,
For I kid you not, I do not jest,

The doggies spoke loud, they spoke true,
They established a platform too,
A campaign to lobby and fight,
Not just for doggies, but the right,

Of all animals on this green Earth,
To be treated as equals, according to their worth,
To fight for respect, for dignity,
For equal rights and the end of malignity,

For we're all the same--humans and dogs--
Plus all other animals, like frogs,
For we all have eyes and ears,
And when we're sad, we all shed tears,

And we all have arms and legs,
And we can all lay eggs,
And we each have a heart,
And brains making us equally smart,

So lobby, the dogs would,
As well they should,
For quite a fight they'd put up,
Persistent, they'd be, never to give up,

Until that glorious day,
When the leaders of Earth would say:
"From this day foath,
It shall be acknowledged, the woath,

Of all life on this planet,
That of doggies and other animals--so can it!
All youa' talk of animals being lessa',
Youa' talk of owning pets, fo' it's a stuessa'

To dese pooa cueata's, innocent and sweet,
Fo' dey dese've moa' dan a doggy tweet,
Dey dese've to dwive cars,
And to serve dwinks at bars,

Dose human puiveleges, and evewy otha',
Like dining at a restauwant, eating clam chauda',
Even pawtaking in politics,
In de voting booff, to choose theia' picks,

And even dis, citizens of the Ea'th:
To run, fo' what it's wo'th,
Fo' President, o' Prime Minista',
Nothing could be less sinista',

Fo' wid rights like dese,
It su'ely will please,
Everyone on dis planet,
So like I said: can it!"

And next thing you'd know,
After this whole gong show,
After Trump's second term, not far off now,
Would be the next US President: a cow.

Last but not least is Franky's story,
Not that of John, Mandy, or Cory,
But Franky, with his hot dog stand,
No longer serving the doggy band,

Franky's story begins where mine did end,
For if you recall the story I penned,
How it ended in the whole crew,
Being scattered through space, it's true,

Due to the pressure of a packed ship,
Which would cause us to explode, the seams to rip,
You can infer that Franky too would be hurled,
Like the rest us, into space, our fates unfurled.

For Franky's fate would be this:
Our dilemma, he certainly wouldn't miss,
He'd see it all around--that is, all of us,
Streaming away from each other, and thus,

He'd take matters into his own hands,
And help us get from space to our home lands,
What would he do, that brilliant hot dog vendor?
Why he'd take his stand, twist, rearrange, and bend 'er.

That is, he'd reconfigure the parts,
He'd rearrange the pieces and, like the arts,
He'd get creative, inventing something new,
Something that would save himself and the crew.

What would Franky invent, you ask me?
Why, I'll tell you, I will, immediately:
He'd convert his hot dog stand, Franky would,
Into a rocket ship, it's understood,

And into the cockpit, he'd sit,
And start the engines, not just a bit,
He'd start them hard, he'd rev them high,
And through space, boy would he fly.

He'd fly around and pick us each up,
As if scooping us into a cup,
And then fly us each to his or her destination,
As if returning from a vacation,

He'd even pull Uranus and Neptune,
Back into orbit before noon,
And while he'd be at it, Pluto too,
Fixing the solar system, it's true,

For that was the power,
At this his finest hour,
Of his hot dog stand,
Now turned rocket ship and,

And tug boat, so to speak,
For he'd tie a rope with a knot so sleek,
Around each planet, one at a time,
A rope strong and prime,

And with a grill strong enough,
With a grill so incredibly tough,
Enough to cook the release-the-grease-heart-attack,
Why, to pull planets, it'd have quite the knack.

On the way, he'd pick up each head banger,
Reaching out to each with a coat hanger,
And pulling them into his rocket ship,
Saying: "Relax, take a seat, don't trip."

He'd stow them away with the mustard,
Quit packed they'd be, quite clustered,
But room they'd easily make,
It wouldn't be hard, a piece of cake,

And of course, just like before,
The Rockin' Dead would continue their encore,
They'd join them amongst the condiments,
And rock out, head banging being the consequence.

Franky'd drop off Gurtrude once Uranus'd be in place,
And then on the way to get Neptune across space,
And drop off Bill at his place of origin,
Bill would stand at the helm, encouragin',

Everyone to watch him as his arms, he'd spread,
Like Kate Winslet in Titanic, with hair so red,
"I'M GOING HOME!!!" he'd scream out loud,
Looking forward to Neptune of which he'd be proud.

And that's when it would get him,
The snot bubble, that is, named Jim.
That's right, Jim the snot bubble,
Would come at Bill on the double,

It would come at him from the side,
As he'd stand there with his arms wide,
Completely not anticipating,
Not expecting or awaiting,

Anything to disturb his moment of bliss,
His moment of glory, which'd be exactly this,
But it wouldn't be a moment to last,
For Bill would repeat an experience from the past,

Being engulfed, that is, by a bubble of snot,
But would it take care of him? Why not?
The last one would, and this one too,
For to Bill, this would be nothing new.

Franky would still follow through,
Pulling Neptune into orbit at a quarter to two,
And then begin returning us home,
Including the Travelocity Gnome.

But that's not all to Franky's story,
There'd be much more drama and glory,
For once Franky would land on Earth,
Another lawsuit to which he'd give birth,

Would appear on the scene,
A lawsuit that'd make Ben turn green,
Ben, that is, owner of Schmizzle's Burger Hut,
For Franky'd sew him with a case open and shut,

He'd get the idea, Franky would,
After attending, as everyone should,
A performance by The Rockin' Dead--
Before they'd join Elvis, that is, and instead,

Change their name to Presley and Slate,
And the Rockin' Deadly Ghostly Ghouls, Mate,
For this lawsuit came before that,
And while Franky would be there at,

A most stellar performance,
Full of goth and romance,
Serving hot dogs to many-a-fan,
Cooked fresh from the grill in his van,

He'd get to hear the story of Rage,
And not just how it gets worse with age,
But how it would be inspired,
By a dull job that'd make them tired,

A job they'd loath, a job they'd hate,
Working at Schmizzle's Burger Hut, mate.
He'd hear about Biff in particular,
Making a burger so spectacular,

A burger so scrumptious, juicy, and wack:
The Release-the-Grease-Heart-Attack,
Well, as soon as Franky'd hear that,
He'd be angry as vampire bat,

He'd be furious, about to rampage,
For he'd be the one feeling rage.
But he'd play it smart, he'd play it cool,
He wouldn't foam at the mouth with drool,

He'd simply go back stage,
After their song Rage,
And reunite with Slate and the gang,
After the fans ceased to head bang,

He'd say: "Long time no see,"
They would vehemently agree,
After which point, he'd explain,
All about his grievous pain,

The pain he would now feel,
After listening to them howl and squeal,
While performing Rage and explaining the meaning,
Delivering it with emotion and feeling,

About how he was the original inventor,
The original hot dog and burger vendor,
Who created and wanted to take back:
The Release-the-Grease-Heart-Attack.

He'd want to take back, that is to say,
The rights to the name and recipe, today,
To take back what, to him, would belong,
The greatest burger ever--is that wrong?

Well, the boys would be eager,
To help out a friend retrieve her,
The rights to his famous burger
Held by that awful hamburglar,

Ben Schmizzle of Schmizzle's Burger Hut,
Who made them feel rage so deep it cut,
They'd find the man, Ben,
And September 4th would be when,

The lawsuit would begin,
A lawsuit Franky would win,
For the odds, his case would beat,
And finally, it would be his, the meat,

The meat of that paddy so thick,
The one oozing grease yummy enough to lick,
From one's fingers or one's hands,
Or wherever that greasy goodness lands.

For having reacquired the R.T.G.H.A.--
You know what that stands for, eh?--
Having reacquired it, like I say,
Really made Franky's day,

Several days, in fact, several years,
For the revenue brought flooding his tears,
Rich beyond his wildest dream,
Would the R.T.G.H.A. make him, it would seem,

It would be enough of a fortune,
To force his stand through a distortion,
A transformation that is, a change,
To become something a lot more strange,

He'd transform it into a full size restaurant,
People'd come from miles around, including his aunt,
To Franky's Hot Dog Stand,
For a taste far from bland,

A taste of all the yummy treats,
Everything he had to offer, even beats,
But of course, the R.T.G.H.A. most of all,
For it'd be a sensation bouncing off the wall.

Thems the tales, thems the stories,
Of my friends in all their glories,
The members of my crew, I mean,
For like a well oiled machine,

They'd perform their function,
At every turn and every junction,
But I wouldn't quite remember them,
As crew members, though each a valuable gem,

I'd remember them as friends,
For when a lot of time one spends,
With girls and boys from all over,
And dogs--whether Rex, Spot, or Rover--

One tends to grow fond,
--whether brunette, redhead, or blond--
--whether boy or girl--from front to rear end--
One grows fond and calls them 'friend'.

Oh, but you're probably wondering,
What on Earth, with it's clouds thundering,
And it's skies shining blue,
After all is said and done about my crew,

Would happen to me?
Aren't you wondering? Aren't ye?
Well, this tale wouldn't be complete,
Unless I explained what happened to my feet,

And the rest of my 2 year old body,
Well, if you recall, I'd be naughty,
That's right, naughty, escaping my crib,
I'd have flown away, leaving my bib,

Flying my space ship, the one on my mobile,
For an escape like that would make me smile,
For I don't want to remain stuck here,
I want to travel far, not near,

But you know that already, man,
For that's how this story began,
So let me resume--where was I--
Oh, yes, how I'd return by-and-by,

Well, I would be Franky's last passenger,
After delivering everyone else, like a messenger,
And to be honest, I'd be getting tired,
Not like after a coffee, being wired,

I'd be tired of this great adventure,
And it wouldn't take an indenture,
To get Franky to fly me home,
In his hot dog stand ship made of chrome,

He'd know exactly where I'd want to go,
In fact, I'd fall asleep, wouldn't you know?
I'd fall asleep on the way,
As the Sun would set, ending the day,

On my mobile is where Franky would park,
Being quiet, driving slow, in the dark,
And fit himself right into the spot,
Where my spaceship, the original, was not,

And once parked there, he'd carry me out,
Out of the ship and to my crib, no doubt,
There he'd lay me down, still fast asleep,
Being sure not to wake me with single peep,

In my slumber I'd remain,
Dreams running through my brain,
Dreams of flying through the stars,
Of space adventures to planets like Mars,

And once the sun would begin to rise,
I'd see the light through the lids of my eyes,
And open them to see a lovely sight,
A sight that always makes my world bright:

Two lovely smiles I would see,
That of my mom and my dad looking at me,
"Good morning sweetie," they'd say,
"Welcome to a bright new day."
My thoughts | My art | My music | My poetry

I don't care about income inequality, I care about the idea that there are people who have actual obstacles to success.
-Ben Shapiro

...we hear about the wage gap, the idea that women are paid significantly less than men--seventy two cents on the dollar--that's absolute shear nonesense--it is absolute nonesense--in 147 out of 150 of the biggest cities in America, women make 8% more money than men do in their peer group. That wage gap is growing, not shrinking.
-Ben Shapiro

We're in a situation now where students can go to university and come out dumber than when they went in. They are infantalized by safe space and trigger warning culture, the idea that interogating a new idea, coming into contact with a school of thought or a person that doesn't conform to your prejudices is somehow problematic, that it gives rise to trauma.
-Milo Yiannopoulus

Fuck your feelings, snowflake
-Milo Yiannopoulos
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