A polite talk about alien races should go like this:
Martians can beat us at every ball game,
As well as at chess, poker and go,
Saturnians have the best ice cream in the Solar System,
Selenites are just an illusion,
Blah blah blah. But a xenophobe,
No doubt, would tell you that
Martian balls are made of some stinking fluff
And their brains look like purple jelly,
Saturnians get their milk out of liquid minerals,
And Selenites are the meanest bastards outside our atmosphere.
In truth, however, they all just grow mushrooms in their stomachs,
Raise fish in their blood vessels,
Listen to Radio Wonderbug now and then
And tamper with the military and the clergy for relaxation.
The place is right here.
Or maybe there, I don’t know.
Extraterrestrial midgets stroll down the street,
if you may call it a street and them midgets,
stroll and babble their heads off,
babble about insanity, freedom, compassion,
garage sales, taxi fares and fake IDs,
scattering around burning antiquated mailboxes,
cracked iPhones, worn-out sneakers,
their own nail parings and hair,
If you may call them nail parings and hair,
and mild radiation. And on their way
they bless warehouses, liquor stores,
auto repair shops and empty parking lots.
Policemen and the homeless follow them reverently,
gibbering about auras, haloes and shit.
A woman wearing a black homely bra and matching panties
pops out of the door of a dome-shaped building
with an unlit cigarette in her mouth and asks where they are going.
She might as well ask about their sex and race.
You’ve been told that the show is going to begin soon,
still not sure, though, about the exact time and location.
You know the password. You have a drum kit,
but have never learned to play, which is fine with them.
It is a warm evening. Okay, maybe cold. Does it matter?
The eyes we inherit don’t fit well anyway.