I don’t know what it is that makes folks, love this show,
Although I’m part of it, I must admit: it blows.
That dude started something,
Roddenberry,
And yet I do not get
The show’s longevity.
Not much for me to do—
I only want to beam up you.

I atomize your matter in a ray that’s blue
Then dispatch you; usually up you go to.
Your atoms are shattered, then just like this,
They’re rearranged; I always hit, I never miss.
Laziest in the crew,
I only want to beam up you.

I’m Scottish and I’m cheap;
I never buy new pairs of pants.
My shirt has got holes in the arms,
Which make Spock look askance.
My lips talk funny.

If I sit beside you, you had best beware—
A great cascade of dandruff flakes and unspared air
“Did you fart or something?!”
They question me.
It’s true from the hole I’d vented an SBD.
No gas masks have the crew;
I’d opened cans of beans. . .ate two.

“Oh, no.” rues Spock, “Illogically
Did you gust an air out of your pants.
It smells like methane cattle farms.”
Spock’s deadpan, gives no rants.
But there’s the yells crew:
“We don’t want to be beside you, have to share
That funky air; to pump it out was just unfair!
Oh, you farted something
Very nasty.
The scenting from that vent
Presages what’s messy!”

In fact, that might be true;
I hope a BM don’t ensue.
The dreaded matter that can splatter does ensue.
Nose-hold, they beam me out, the crew.