In orbit around the star KSR-10,
Is a small planet peopled by tiny green men.
Not little green men of the Hollywood sort,
But tiny green men, maybe three inches short.
A society based on most ancient tradition,
Its people make conquest their corporate mission.
Manifest Destiny of warriors savage,
Invasion of distant worlds, fallen and ravaged.
Throughout the ages, away soared the ships,
Bearing crusaders on conquering trips.
The fires of adventure within their souls burning,
Out to the stars they went, never returning.
Their fate was the source of much feared superstition,
Only partly allayed by their mystic religion.
Had they found their reward, by heroic deeds fated,
And reached worlds beatific, as holy writ stated?
Or had they been thrust into burial, base,
Tiny green corpses, the blackness of space?
Had some other fate overtaken these warriors,
Perhaps become prey to unspeakable horrors?
... and that's where it ends.
I found this poem written in an old school notebook, marked up with references to Star Wars, Frederick Jackson Turner, and the Poetic Edda.
