Saturday Live Poems Oct 30. Octopuses in space

So goodbye then Paul, psychic cephalopod,
World Cup winner with the tentacle of God.
How rare to find an oracle you could dive to from a coracle.
You left Derek Acorah without a leg to stand on – well, you did have eight.
Was it straining to predict Wayne Rooney’s next cock up caused your fate?
Or missing the clairvoyant clamour and bustle?
Perhaps it’s as bad for octopi as it is for footie players to end up pulling a mussel.

In the week we’ve heard about Nasa’s 100 year starship plan to colonise the Galaxy, & inspired by the Starship Enterprise flat & John Lloyd’s involvement with Hitchhikers Guide to The Galaxy;

In space nobody can hear you dream

What if space really is the future?
We’ll have second homes on the moon,
send displaced Londoners to live on Mars
travel to Jupiter in an afternoon,
as long as there aren’t Teleportation strikes
or a shortage of Boris’s intergalactic
plutonium powered bikes
We will take our pills in the form of meals,
buy space suits in Comet’s two for one deals,
Alan Sugar will say “You’re Fired”- into outer space,
Simon Cowell will run the Mercury Music Awards
from a Mercury mission base,
Fashionistas will jet to whichever planet is in this year,
then complain that it’s got no atmosphere
Usain Bolt will run at the speed of light,
Ann Widdecombe will moonwalk on Strictly
on a Saturday night
The “Alien” films will become
documentaries,
Professor Brian Cox will be
King of the Universe
North Pole Trekkers will seem parochial,
the desperation of exploration
will get worse.
There’ll be a cap on the number of aliens
allowed to enter earth,
which will be inherited by the bleak
who were terrestrial from birth
and it will no longer make sense for the human race
to say leave us alone,
we need some space.

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