S.E.T.I. Man

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       S.E.T.I. Man

I work for S.E.T.I.,
been doing it for about six years.
The government pay me,
I twiddle knobs while supping beers.
My wife and my children
think my job’s some kind of joke,
I say it’s got us a nice house,
it’s better than being broke.

I’m a S.E.T.I. man,
S.E.T.I., S.E.T.I. man.

We send out signals,
but we got none coming back.
They say if I don’t make contact
with any benign aliens,
I would get the sack.
A friend of mind told me,
he would call to let me know,
if he ever had a close encounter
with a U.F.O.

Because I’m a S.E.T.I. man,
S.E.T.I., S.E.T.I. man

The Search for Extra-terrestrial Intelligence
may sound rather odd.
My auntie Mary said: Give me a call,
if you should ever contact God.
As for me, I hope ever to meet an E.T.
If I did I hope he’d be the kind of person
I’d invite home for tea.

For I’m a S.E.T.I. man,
S.E.T.I., S.E.T.I. man.

We built star scanners,
space radio stations tuned in key.
Planet map planners
sketch in our great observatory.
I get stimulated by the message we wait for,
from solar wheel panoramas,
star folk on the cosmic shore.

Yes, I’m a S.E.T.I. man,
S.E.T.I., S.E.T.I. man. 

 

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