They Expect One of Us in the Wreckage

This is a poem about Area 51.

And how classy the authorities can't be.
It is also a poem about how you can do blood transfusions
in the middle of a plane crash.

After all, forensics will just check your blood,
and then be done with your full and swelled corpse.
Then you can die.

Forget Star man.
And the sister he had on his shoulder.
There will be no E.T.
A.

(no estimated time of arrival)

Plan carefully your next mov(i)e, Alien.