The nightjars the evening are hymning,
Our hopes, like the daylight are dimming,
For there on the green
Is a sight most obscene...
It's Martians, they're stealing our wimming...  er women.

They've come down in monstrous great saucers,
They've anchored them down with huge hawsers.
And little green men
Come time and again,
And Jesus, they're all hung like horsers... er horses.

They promise our gals satisfaction,
With glorious zero-G action,
And to them they're flocking,
For alien focking,
With no thought of fellas reactions.

But wait, look what now's come in view,
They're women, but such a strange hue;
One's coming this way...
I feel I must stay,
She's great, even if she's pale blue.

Her body is like Catherine Zeta
Jones, and her legs just like Rita
Hayworth's once wuz,
And face like Francoise,
That Hardy, than whom none was sweeta.

She washes and cooks and she cleans,
No more am I living on beans.
And best of her gimmicks,
She speaks all in lim'ricks
In tones like the Beeb's Charlotte Green's.

 * * *

What's that, Erm- I've had a wet dream?
I woke you with passionate sdcream?
My dream was of *you*;
Of course that is true,
It's no-one but you makes me cream.

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Last updated: Wed, 7 Feb 2001.