The stars
are barred,
no room on the moon I bet,
no plot to let
if we went
to pitch an A frame tent
Sorry
Saturn's rings
are chock a block with things
we can't disclose
Even if we chose to know
the reasons for
lesions
that appear in a row
Little green men
pestering hens
gesturing come hither,
the rotters,
dithering
glistening bug eyed squatters
It's a real deal
the state,
of pan galactic real estate
No vacancies for flagrant,
vagrant,
short stay species
Conspiracies hatched
behind doors latched
in B and B's
But we might
if we try
find a place in the sky,
better yet
for some debt
as entertainment
in containment
as some house trained alien pet
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