Antenna wire's been hung, I've found the spot
Where Hal should go. Now fiddling with the dial
I can't believe the signals that I've got.
The air through which we pass all day's alive
With signal, voices calling out to us,
Some faint, some thund'ring (Moscow, must you strive
To blot out all the hams? You make them cuss),
And all have something someone wants to say,
'Bout Jesus, gold, Chinese vocab and such.
I've lost four hours already, here at play,
My Hallicrafters, yes, I love too much.
I warned you all that this would be the case.
I'm listening for signals now from space.