Poem number 42
The Ultimate Answer
Thank you, Douglas Adams for the world of Frogstar B
Thank you for the monkeyman who’s always craving tea
Thank you for the Vogons, so un-bricklike in the sky
Thank you for the formula for learning how to fly
Thanks for Slartibartfast driving quickly, like my wife
Thanks for poor old Marvin and his disappointing life
Thanks for Zaphod Beeblebrox, for Trillian, The Guide
Thanks for Ford’s old satchel and the towel he keeps inside
Thanks for mice and peanuts and the number 42,
I wrote ‘Don’t Panic’ on my tablet, and it’s all because of you.
Poem number 119
A Jedi, whilst still a young lad
Met a Queen, had some fun then turned bad
He joined the Dark Side
She gave birth and died
And her twins had a Sith for a dad.
Poem number 123
I switched the light switch on again
The Devil was still there
I switched the light switch off again
Could smell his cordite hair
I switched the light switch on again
He flashed his pointy teeth
He switched the light switch off again
And dragged me down beneath.
Poem number 143
Good Work Master Kenobi
A trooper patrolling Mos Eisley
Followed instructions precisely
“Your droids are ok,
You can go on your way.”
The mind-trick was working quite nicely.
Poem number 144
One Night In Amityville
The gate squeaked
My mind freaked
I couldn’t speak
My fear peaked
The future bleak
My bowels leaked
The bed reeked
I’d found Shit Creek.
Poem number 214
Two deaths beneath two mid-day suns
Two skeletons left charred
The smoke obscures the homestead
Luke is devastated, scarred
He vows to fight the Empire
Be a Jedi, be a man
Sells his speeder, hires a ship
Flies off to Alderaan.
And thus begins adventure
Legend, soaring twists of fate
New hope strikes back at darkened skies
Poem number 246
R2D2 Ate My Wife
R2D2 ate my wife
Whilst I was at the shops
The little beeping bastard
Said he’d thought that she was chops.
“Chops?!” I yelled “You stupid droid!
She wasn’t even dead!
She wasn’t even sleeping
She was baking bloody bread!”
“Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep!”
He said with real chagrin
To which I said “Ah, fair enough.”
And poured us both a gin
Poem number 265
The Curfew Rings
The pavement is littered with severed heads
It’s mostly teenagers today, there must have been a party.
Typical teenagers, out when they should’ve been in their beds
Safe and sound well before Curfew.
Perhaps they thought that they would be spared
As so many others have not been
But the Curfew Rings have no mercy and cared
Not for the youth of the miscreants.
For the Curfew Rings are but machines
Sent out to do another’s bidding
As is Fredbot 3.0, who now cleans
Up the pavement in the light of the new sun.
Fredbot 3.0 with his suction tubes and grinding plates
Removing the heads from the street
Before Centre opens up the gates
To give the citizens permission to leave for work.
And here lies a Curfew Ring, amongst the heads on the ground,
Pulsing spasmodically – a victim of depleted energy cells
Its saw-teeth still coated with the blood that it found
And then released, from the neck of a miscreant
So graceful in flight, glowing blue and soaring
Through the sky with its fellows,
Alive to the sounds of pulsing hearts and veins, drawing
Ever closer to the miscreants below.
But here in the sun drenched morning, cells depleted
It is nothing. A metal hoop with a serrated inner edge
Lying, helpless, amongst the justice it meted
Out with such machine-like efficiency.
Fredbot 3.0 snags the fallen Curfew Ring and drops it into his charging slot –
By the time he gets back to Central
It will be fully powered up, ready to be shot
Out at midnight, to deal with more miscreants
Ready to fly through the city in search of those who flout the Rightful Law,
To lasso itself around their necks then contract, squeeze,
Sever, as it spins its metal toothed jaw
Through the raw flesh and bone beneath, before moving on.
And tomorrow there will be more heads on the ground
Empty eyed, hair stirring in the morning breeze
And Fredbot 3.0 will come around
Once more, to clean the streets for a new day.
Poem number 274
Run Logan, run Logan, run run run!
Don’t give the Sandmen their fun fun fun!
If your palm blinks, it means you’re gonna die
So run Logan, run Logan, run run run!
Poem number 308
(With apologies to Masefield)
The rust goes down to my knees again, I can only see from one eye
I called to ask for new silicone chips but I hear not one reply;
And my heel’s split and my chin’s gone and the right hip’s shaking,
And a flayed fist and a peeled face, and my grey diodes breaking.
The rust goes down to my knees again, when I fall I get dents in my side
If a wild fall or severe fall then circuits break inside;
I called to ask for a solder iron but they said I wasn’t dying
And my sprung jaw and the blown fuse, and the seized up joints crying.
The rust goes down to my knees again, with the fragrant droid-rot rife
With the dull decay and the failing way that my pins cause fetid strife
I called to ask for some darning yarn from our depot down in dover
But a quiet line and a silent scream and my brain has gone, it’s over.