Through the stars and back again,
my flight assist my only companion,
her growl is smooth like satin and silk,
while her dual sustained-lasers murder bountiful ilk.
They call her a cobra, mark-3, type of plane,
but I call her a ship, one with no name.
She and I understanding that tame,
has no honest place in the bounty-hunt game.
Through sol-type stars do we scoop,
hydrogen-elemental fuel as we loop,
with thrusters at minimum super cruise,
Oh how the stars shift to streams of white hues.
When it comes time to collect our reward,
we break for the nearest place to starboard,
then charge the frame-shift for a nominal horde,
of power and thrust, and navigation on-board.
Then orbiting nowhere in the middle of space,
she and I set down at the landing place,
to collect bounties, ammunition, cargo and fuel
we correct, re-outfit, repair and retool.
With a slow vert-motion, we rise,
into heavenly, star-brightened skies,
where once again we will hear lies,
from pirates and smugglers, governments we despise.
And if in a moment of weakness we sit,
in the vacuum of space beaten to a pulpit,
re-start her engines, I do it real quick,
for the canopy’s blown but I’ve still got the stick.
When at last her engines ignite,
her dashboard comes on ready for flight,
I pull out the stops and fly her just right,
to the nearest space station with all of my might.
Nothing could ever be quite so satisfying,
as when in my ship it and I are two, flying,
so take heed when I say these words to you too,
“To your ship and yourself, always be true.”