(a poem by David E. Manuel)
An alien entity, small and green,
traversed the universe through gaps between
the clusters of matter that matter, unseen
by the intergalactic police.
Ignoring all physical laws, this speed king,
who went by the name Prince Amfeetahming,
traveled faster than light from the nebular ring
with a fiendishly clever device.
In a secret place under his viewing stand
was a tiny compartment for contraband
filled with illegal substances, chemicals grand,
very popular with every populace.
Just a taste of this stash supercharged his electrons,
expanded his fuel rods, excited his neurons,
projected him far beyond Newton's environs
to hyper-ethereal Z-space.
Once energized, he could explore the whole cosmos.
In an instant he'd transit the Quasar Erasmus.
His exotic cargo brought pleasure and gladness
to a galaxy lonely and spacious.
This trade brought him millions in cash of all kinds,
from cosmic kopeks to antarean hinds,
but excitement, the thrill of the chase, he opined,
was his primary gain from this service.
Like many adventurers, fame soon undid him.
Osirian traders resented his freedom,
reported his routes to Sidereal Customs
for reasons of profit and justice.
The authorities watched every vortex and space lane
in a tireless effort to see him detained.
Astral bureaucrats swore that such trafficking stained
civil servitude's claim to hold office.
He was cornered at last in a small solar system.
With a daring maneuver he almost escaped them,
but a star blocked his path and, unluckily, crisped him;
snuffed out his celestial hubris.
There's a moral to draw from this plagiarized story:
to avoid a conclusion that's senseless and gory,
kids, don't abuse drugs, alcohol, or curry
when watching old Bob Mitchum movies.