Sonneteer's note: this is the latest installment of an on-going sonnet serial, Pepito Mojito: The Interstellar Feller. New readers can get up to speed by clicking on the "Interstellar Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...
Flat-footed isn't quite how I'd describe
The manner in which our fine crew is caught.
Flagrante, like a wild Bonobo tribe,
Is more the truth. Not one of them has fought
A certain urge. The ship is humid, rank
And busy; no one notices the drone
That sidles up alongside, fires a beam
Bright pink in hue. Its target is unknown
Since no one's looking, but we wouldn't dream
It's aimed at any but Yectara, who
Stops in mid-stroke and screams "No, master! No!"
"How did he find us?" soon inquires the crew,
Re-donning garments, guilty, on the go,
And rushing for to check, all ire dispelled
By their concern for she who's lately yelled.
Friday, June 25, 2010
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