The Nelephant 9000 Computer #2

by Robert Black

 

The misguided missile blundered into a tree
Where it perched nervously, smoking like a cigarette,
Till a ladder appears, and a white-breasted boffin climbs up
And taps on the metal casing… then a lense looks out…
And a moment later the Nelephant 9000 computer shouts,
“Help! Some fool’s connected me up to a mouse!”

 

Mr. W.

Mr. W.

Illustration by J. Andrew World

by Rand Bellavia and Adam English

 

Captain’s on a holiday
First Mate has gone away
And Data’s down in engineering for repairs
Dr. Crusher’s got a cold
Wesley’s only twelve years old
And all the other children are mind controlled

Who will lead the crew? What are we to do
When the enemy ship comes into view?
When the pressure’s on who will take the con?

Geordi’s visor’s on the blink
Deanna Troi is on the brink
O’Brien’s been reassigned to Deep Space Nine
Barclay’s on the Holodeck
Tasha’s dead and Ro’s a wreck
Garibaldi’s not on Star Trek

Who will lead the crew? What are we to do
When the enemy ship comes into view?
Who’s to be obeyed when the Borg invade?
This is just what I was afraid of

Mr. Worf comes through
Mr. Worf will lead the crew
Mr. Worf’s our man
Mr. Worf will take command

I was hoping for someone else and I’m not just thinking about myself
I’m afraid for all our lives if Worf’s in charge of the Enterprise
We wouldn’t care: if Data’s cat was in power we’d follow her
If we received our orders from Nurse Ogawa we’d say,
“Yes, sir!”

Weren’t you the one who pointed your gun
At the viewscreen and you tried to stun
The grinning image of Q, what were you trying to do?
I seem to remember that was you

Mr. Worf don’t get mad
You’re the best Klingon we’ve ever had
But Mr. Worf you must see
We need a different kind of security

We’re glad you’re strong and brave
But we’d prefer a captain who fears the grave
Our standards aren’t that high
We only ask that we not die

[Rapping]
“I am a Klingon, and in my point of view
It would be dishonorable to cower like the rest of you
I have the ridges of a warrior, I do not fear death
I deposed the House of Duras with a flourish of my Batleth
Star Fleet’s only Klingon, I’m a full Lieutenant Commander
I’ve got two dead wives and a son named Alexander
No matter what I am equal to the test, I’ll kill them before I maim the rest
So be it Romulan Warbird or a cargo freighter, I’ll fire phasers first and ask questions later”

 

Oracle

by Danielle Ackley-McPhail

 

Man’s jarring foothold
A slowly whirling dervish
Drifts infinitesimally by
Breaking up the symmetry
Of heaven’s stunning starscape

Polycarbonate coffins
Jettisoned in a final
Reverent journey
Across the sky
Silhouetted against
A shattered, ash-grey globe
Once marbled blue
As a comet’s tail
Like falling tears
Mourns the dead
Of eternity

The Mother has not outlived
Her children

 

Dervish

by Danielle Ackley-Mcphail

 

spinning
spiraling
whirling
dervish
divinely twirled
from point to point
slow a moment
and you whisper
in my ear
the secret of
immortal wisdom
of standing still
unmoving
tranquil
and savoring
a mercurial world
as it passes
in frenetic activity

 

Sympathy For George Lucas

by Rob Balder

To the tune of “Sympathy for the Devil,” performed by The Rolling Stones, written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards.

 

Please allow me to introduce myself,
I’m the man behind the scenes.
I brought the greatest science fiction film of all time
To the silver screen.
I was around when farmboy Luke
Met the Death Star, and got away.
Made damn sure that pilot
Used the Force, and saved the day.

Pleased to meet you. Hope you guess my name.
But what’s puzzlin’ you is why the prequels were so lame.

I thought up Jedis and light sabres,
I gave you Wookiees. I brought you droids.
You spent your teens on my Tattooine,
So you can’t be too annoyed.
If I’m the guy who made Artoo fly,
So much CGI that you want to cry.
I’m just a man doin’ the best I can
To make some movies, and sell some toys.

Pleased to meet you. Hope you guess my name.
But what’s puzzlin’ you is why the prequels were so lame.
You know this tale is your Holy Grail.
You know every line, every small detail.
It wasn’t I who set the bar too high
That when it came out, it couldn’t fail to fail.
But I watched with glee while you nerds and geeks
Stood in line for weeks for your preview sneaks.
You shouted out, “Who killed the Trilogy?”
When after all, it was Jar-Jar Binks.

Pleased to meet you. Hope you guess my name.
Is it still puzzlin’ you is why the prequels were so lame?
Let me explain.

Just as every dope is a prodigy,
As every Bard’s a hack,
As genius fails, just call me “Lucasfilm,”
Cause I’m in need of one good smack.
So if ya meet me, have some courtesy,
Shut yer pie hole, and get in line.
Buy all my well-planned merchandise,
Or I’ll make VII, VIII and IX.

I’ll do it, too.
Woo hoo! Woo hoo! Woo hoo!
Now tell me Jar-Jar, what’s my name?
Tell me Windu, what’s my name?
Amidala, what’s my name?
I’ll tell ya one time: you’re to blame.

Sympathy for George Lucas

Illustration by J. Andrew World

 

Snuffing the Dragon

Snuffing the Dragonby Mike Allen

 

Pity the harvester of dragon phlegm,
whose task is to collect those smoldering gobs—
’tis no surprise there are not more of them.

One molten glop worth more than any gem,
yet higher still the toll for these hot jobs.
Pity the harvester of dragon phlegm.

This ever-burning undousable phlegm
lures merchants far and wide in wheedling mobs.
Surprised, you say, there are not more of them?

To aim the snuff requires a stratagem
that lets one dodge the flaming, hurtling blobs,
(Pity the harvester of dragon phlegm!)

and dragons’ temperaments tend to condemn
to fiery death these enterprising squabs.
’Tis no surprise there are not more of them.

A phlegm-collector’s wife (Ai! Pauvre femme!)
is known by her black veil and mournful sobs.
Pity the harvesters of dragon phlegm,
’tis no surprise there are not more of them.

 

Captain’s Song

by J.W. Liotta

To the tune of “I’m Too Sexy,” performed by Right Said Fred, written by Fred Fairbrass, Richard Fairbrass, and Rob Manzoni.

 

I’m too sexy for my ship, too sexy for my ship.
Isn’t that a pip?

I’m too sexy for my mate, too sexy for my mate.
“Number One” don’t rate!

Chorus A:
I’m a captain, y’know what I mean?
And I give out my orders on the ship’s bridge.
On the ship’s bridge, on the ship’s bridge.
I give out my orders on the ship’s bridge.

I’m too sexy for my suit, too sexy for my suit.
Isn’t that a hoot?

I’m too sexy for my chair, too sexy for my chair.
With or without hair!

(Repeat Chorus A)

I’m too sexy for my crew, too sexy for my crew.
What can you do?

I’m too sexy for Star Fleet, too sexy for Star Fleet.
Isn’t that just neat?

Chorus B:
I’m a captain, y’know what I mean?
And I shake my l’il tush in the “big chair.”
On the ship’s bridge, on the ship’s bridge.
I shake my l’il tush in the “big chair.”

I’m too sexy for this song…

Captain's Song

Illustration by J. Andrew World

 

Wizards

by Rochelle Mitchell

 

Wizards are smart fellows.
They wear big hats
And long robes to hide
Their pajamas.
They have long whiskers
Because they rather
Think glorious thoughts
Than shave.

They order pizza,
Look to the heavens
And chart the planets
While us foolish mortals
Fold our laundry
And clean our bedrooms.

Wizards smell a great deal.
Who has time for bathing
When the King needs you
To forecast weather
And plan battles
Based on the alignment
Of the planets and stars?

 

Warning

by Rochelle Mitchell

 

In dusty bookshelves
Some books gather no dust
They smell of leather,
Glue, parchment and ink
That the centuries
Cannot decay.
Calling to would-be wizards
“Open me.
Learn my magic,”
They fill your head
With tales of fancy.
Their silence call
Speaks of gold, kingdoms,
And your fondest wish granted.
Don’t listen!
Because ancient magic
Will never do as you command
The ancient magic serves no master
But itself.

 

Fifty Ways to Leave Your Planet

by Rob Balder

To the tune of “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover,” written and performed by Paul Simon.

 

She crossed her tentacles and swung her eyes to me.
The answer’s easy if you take it logically.
I’d like to help you in your struggle to be free.
There must be fifty ways to leave your planet.

She said it’s really not our habit to intrude.
We couldn’t help it; you’re a fascinating brood.
Why do you sit here burning oxygen and food?
There must be fifty ways to leave your planet.

Fifty ways to leave your planet.

Use chemical thrust, Gus.
Make a big ram, Sam.
Just hop on a sail, Dale.
Listen to me.

Start usin’ your brain, Blaine,
Manufacture a spaceplane!
Make an ion jet, Brett.
Get yourself free.

Just ride up a thread, Fred.
Use an orbital sling, Bing.
Get a microwave boost, Bruce.
Listen to me.

Go build a big gun, son,
We know you can make one!
Just superconduct, Buck.
Get yourself free.

You don’t need hyperspace, don’t need a warp nacelle.
Within your reach are many methods to propel
The human race beyond your gravitation well.
There must be fifty ways to leave your planet.

She said why don’t we both just sleep on it tonight
And I believe in the morning you’ll begin to see the light,
And then she probed me… but I realized she probably was right.
There must be fifty ways to leave your planet.

Fifty ways to leave your planet.

Use chemical thrust, Gus.
Make a big ram, Sam.
Just hop on a sail, Dale.
Listen to me.

Start usin’ your brain, Blaine,
Manufacture a spaceplane!
Make an ion jet, Brett.
Get yourself free.

Just ride up a thread, Fred.
Use an orbital sling, Bing.
Get a microwave boost, Bruce.
Listen to me.

Go build a big gun, son,
We know you can make one!
Just superconduct, Buck.
Get yourself free.

50 Ways to Leave Your Planet

Illustration by J. Andrew World