To The Poet Of The Future
When the frisbees, white-hot, metal,
Scud gigantic through the dark,
Volunteers aboard who'll settle
On a moon and for a lark -
While the android crew is nibbling
Tin-tacks in a void immense,
There you'll sit in honour scribbling
Poetry in residence.
While the frosty, chilled explorers
Wait inside their frigidaire,
You'll record their features for us,
Breathing artificial air.
Poet of the tenth dimension,
May they praise your threnodies,
Put you on an age-old pension,
When they wake, as fit as fleas.