"I think that I shall never see / Potato trees on 581-c"
We of the smaller planet,
who make our dwellings from wood
and burn oil to drive our cars,
send greetings to the people of New Earth.
If choosing a landing place in future
please beware regions in dispute,
for your own safety, in case you're mistaken
for one of us, and shot.
We long to hear your poems of purple moon
and three-legged gazellaroos dancing
to the songcrows of midnight.
We crave Monster Munch that looks like us
and moon-dried tomatofig ice cream.
We're dying to know if your poets opine
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a Ferengi.
A special plea: don't diss the old culture.
Don't watch us, (on your "Vanishing World"),
march in our uniforms into extinction.
Even if we believe in an impotent god,
get sloshed on firewater and fight in the town,
we are not completely without worth.
Dear people of New Earth,
we have only just met, but
please let us live in peace and,
if possible, bring us precious stones.
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