Sci Fi Saturday: A Frustrating Interview

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!"

Sci Fi Saturday: Come Post the Compost

The fine print on his air license was clear:
'Twas based upon consumption, not on time.
But Pepper thought he'd paid up for a year,
And kept on filibustering. The climb
In readings on his meter grew quite steep
When he protested policy on who
Could marry on the station. In his sleep
He missed the cut-off, woke up, lips turned blue
And screamed, thus wasting oxygen. No one
Seemed much concerned. His bluster had not made
Him popular. "Shoot him into the sun,"
A wag suggested, but his corpse was laid
At last in a symbolic heap of stuff
Like what he'd spewed life-long. 'Twas ripe enough...

Satire Sunday: Space Oddities

Space tourists, quite predictably, began
The trend before real space trips were a thing.
As soon as micro-gravity hit, man
Or woman, sweet sixteen bash, they would sing
That David Bowie tune and try to do
Cool tricks in mid-air. As homage might go
It wasn't bad. But rebels, rebels true,
Grow tired of imitations, so, you know,
'Twas no surprise that on that pleasure cruise
Among the moons of Jupiter, one sage
Flight of the Conchords' one song chose to choose,
And soon nipple antennae were the rage.
Attendants on commercial trips now scream
At any strumming sound. It's kind of mean.