Ode To A Tribble
Fair and full is your honest, furry face,
Great chieftain of the cooing race!
Above them all ye take your place,
Puppy or cat that purr:
Well are ye worthy of a grace
As soft and sure.
The groaning Klingon you screech shrill,
You shake and quiver still,
Your sight would help to mend the ill
In time o' need,
While through your pores your love distill
Like amber bead.
His bat'leth seek labour delight,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what glorious sight,
Thrice more are born, rich!
Then fist and blade, they stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till their mortal enemies rive
In mounds of great hight;
Then to a warrior, thus cry
Be gone bloody PARASITE!
Is there that over the Klingon targh's mew,
Or Vulcan sehlat with toothy crew,
Or Ceti eel’s slime-covered larval spew
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a gentle trust?
Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rash,
His shank a good whip-lash,
His fist a nit;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.
But mark the tribble-friend,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He'll make it whistle;
His enemies will fade
Like tops of the thistle
You powers, who make humanity your care,
And dish them out their worldly fare,
Old Terra wants no lesser ware,
That fails to sooth the furrowed brow;
But, if ye wish her grateful prayer,
Give her a Tribble now!
