by Nancy Wilcox
Lieutenant Cooper has the deck,
he dont take no lip.
No stalk-eyed son of Rigel dreck
will make it through the Slip.
They say theres talk of peace back home,
of giving up the Moons.
In the oxy-breather domes
they call that Looney-Tunes.
This ship patrols the battle zone
to keep worm-riders out.
When humans claim space for their own,
they claim it with a shout.
A warning siren starts to wail,
a tell-tale starts to chime.
He thinks How like a walking snail,
to fight with sploding slime.
Yes, there it is, a wobble-goop
just off the starboard beam.
He grabs it with the pressor-scoop
and throws it back Between.
He laughs at what the coms reveal,
they caught it in the gut.
He spits, and says, Whose turn to deal?
Its Pilgrim? Then Ill cut.
Poem © 2002 by Nancy Wilcox email@example.com
Artwork © 2002 by Ehrad firstname.lastname@example.org
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