S.E.T.I. Man

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,
though it never was my plan.

We send out signals,
hold on hope, but get none coming back.
No benign aliens
ever respond, but we keep on track.
A friend of mine told me,
he would call to let me know,
if he had a close encounter
with a real, true U.F.O.
I’m a S.E.T.I. man,
find the face behind the fan.

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 can only hope
he’d be the kind of person
I’d invite home for tea,
because I’m a S.E.T.I. man,
happy beans jump in my can.

We built star scanners,
space radio stations tuned in key.
Planet map planners
sketch in our great Observer Tree.
I get stimulated
by the message we wait for,
from planet wheel panoramas,
star folk on the cosmic shore.
I’m a S.E.T.I. man,
can transport space in my van.

Yes, I’m a S.E.T.I. man.

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