Maurice Martian & the Space Invaders are
ridin' on down the line
with fruitcakes and pandas,
singin' songs of flower
singin' songs of bamboo:


floop-joop
fleet-teet
doopy-doo-sharoo,
this is our song,
the hell with you


We are just a band of
vagrants, fragrant, no rent
to pay, no dent in our reciprocals,
ain't reciprocatin' nothin' but
the blues in our shoes and the
rhyme in our rhythm,
rhythm 'n' rhyme, slime 'n' grime -
we travel five thousand miles
in nine nanoseconds
with the help of blank fingertips and
conciliatory minds.
We bend time
and we feel fine.
This is the age where we love the best,
with our best foot forward and
our worst foot backwards (hurts
like winter, loves like grass)
but nevertheless we skip sideways,
we're challenged vertically,
tested horizontally, and sadly
we end up boxed like sardines and
come out sardonic - our backs smart
but our necks smarter. We stretch 'em
like African women-folk in June and
grumpy eskimos in April;
we're Men of the Year in China and
Humanoids of the Century in the next galaxy.
This is some feat, ain't no doubt, and our
feet start a-tappin', our hips start a-shakin' -
we're like jelly (hopefully red and tasty);
We wobble up the interstellar highway
speakin' gibberish ("splat, squish, splosh")
and flirtin' with ice cream.
Ice Queen's askin' 'bout her old flame
and she's told he's no good for her,
and also head up north to pick on
someone your own temperature,
there's a good gal.


Excuse me, there's a shooting star
in my soup.


...And with that timely distraction
we take our chance to say goodbye -
our services are required in ancient Egypt
where they need help
buildin' a bunch o' pyramids.
Then there's some UFO sightings
to arrange in Mexico.
All in a day's work.
Then we're gonna head off for a few weeks holiday
to the parallel worlds in which the snake kept his mouth shut
and Pandora didn't open that fuckin' box.


Until we meet again...


Yours sincerely,
Maurice Martian & the Space Invaders

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