It wasn't ever known what caused the end
Of that good ship, Obama, forty souls
And unknown cargo. Zadok, my old friend,
The salvager, claims to know the whole
Sad story, but he'll only tell his tale
When fabulously drunk, on planet-leave,
And at his fav'rite dive. O'er bad synth-ale,
That blots his mind, that soaks into his sleeve,
He darkly hints of solar flares and worse.
"I found 'er," he will say. "What are the odds
That she should wind up on Hygiea? Curse
That barmaid, I am dry! What's that? Ye gods!
It's true. Nobody lived except one man,
And he seems plumb immortal! Bring that can!"