This morning my laptop received a strange note;
a plea for relief from a far-distant world.
What a sorrowful missive that poor creature wrote!
It afflicted my nerves till my very hair curled:
“O Children of Adam, beware our sad fate,
the dread Spun Worg have us. Base slavery!
They’ve turned paradise to a horrible state;
for they’re larger and stronger and meaner than we.
Each morning they shake us and put us to work.
We’re imprisoned in camps where we must concentrate.
Alas for our fellows who faint or who shirk,
the detention they’re given’s a terrible fate.
The Spun Worg have robbed us of all our good food!
They allow us just brain-washing, terrible slime,
and joke, if we choke it all down and be good,
that their poison will make us like them, in due time.
Though some of us try to escape from their grip—
off into the sky, or down in deep holes—
few of us manage to give them the slip
before their cruel grasp has recaptured our souls.
At night when they’ve locked us each down in our jail,
we hear their strange revels and primitive grunts
and smell the strange drugs to which they avail
for the coming day’s bullying, tortures and hunts.”
It was signed, “Beware, Earthling! Flee! Or repent!
Or they’ll come for you, selfish and ignorant fool.”
So I called in my kid, and I said,
“Nice. You sent
this to Mom too? Tough. Go get ready for school.”