Hark! The commander speaks:

Do you think for one fek that Victory treads her turbulent paths

through the effervescence of your grueling prospects?

Remember my grimbo,

I wear the sacred stapled skull of command.

An ingathering of salted bee pollen,

an elephantine toad tree,

twelve toes, bitter parsnips, franticly masticating fruit bats.

No, your chance at promotion is forever linked to how often you bathe.

Tick softly neutron star…

I gurgle into the night.

Aft engine impulse speed,

generous measurement of fusonic euphoria,

what is that which neither of us find limping,

squalling, peeling like fish sandwiches under the Banyan tree?

That secret thing, that passionate key,

that refracted flare spit forth from the coin operated laundry machine.

Once the cycle has begun there is no way to stop it

until all the socks have bled, and the shirts too small to use.

Hark! The commander speaks:

Quell not the murmured rumblings deep within,

spitfire snack-monster, tepid gray gravy quaffer,

that cheese is not for you.

Russet ring’d planetoid, you flounder in the rosy void,

your fish are dry and turgid.

Torn, the fabric of my favorite pants.

Hooked, my finger triplefold bleeding.

Inflatable worm scoffing severed,

mocking dangles from my cap.

All is chum.