After Iolanthe, by Gilbert and Sullivan
You've consumed a relaxant, no effect's yet apparent, you're still in a state of sobriety.
Your nerves are all shot, the bedclothes they plot of your usual sweet dreams to deprive you,
Your bedspread hits the floor, scatt'ring bottles galore and the sheet follows shortly from under you.
You sigh, woebegone, and you pull it back on and you have one more go at relaxing,
But you're restless and cross and you tumble and toss, all that booze you've knocked back notwithstanding.
Then the intercom goes, so much for repose, and it's Blake at his most Messianic; So you pull on some clothes, stubbing both of your toes, and dash out of the room in a panic.
When you reach the flight deck, Avon's wringing Blake's neck, it appears the distress call's a false one.
His face looks quite baleful, goodness me, that looks painful, never mind; oh great genius, have fun.
Back to bed off you trudge, fomenting a grudge, and clamber back under the bedclothes.
You shut your eyes tight for it's long past midnight and this time you fall into a doze.
But your slumbering teems with these horrible dreams, of plants with designs on your body,
Of crimos and Travis, heart teeming with malice as they hand you back into his custody.
Next you dream you're in gaol where you've gone a bit pale, for your lockpicking tools have all vanished;
All your clothes are gone too, you just don't have a clue to the reason that they were relinquished.
Then the ground starts to rumble, the walls start to crumble and you're yelling out "Teleport now!"
The gaols disappears so you give out three cheers but just then you crash-land on a cow.
You're both in a quarry, to the cow you say "Sorry," and ask it the way to Space City;
The cow is an alien, language sesquipedalian, you just don't understand, such a pity.
You set off up the slope, your eyes full of hope (you notice your clothes are back on you)
Where you bump into Avon, who's adorned with a raven, quoth he "Where's the rest of the crew?"
He waves a thick bankroll, says he'll write from his bolthole, and throws you a probe as a keepsake.
"It's designed for computers and prized by free-booters and useful in cases of toothache."
He jumps on a horse, drinking neat Worcester Sauce, followed up with a large whisky sour,
Then you turn to find Blake who is munching fruit cake and a plateful of cold cauliflower.
He asks you to dine but you have to decline for your falling into a large cavern;
Feeling somewhat unstable you grab a chess table in what seems a late maniac tavern.
You could murder a Soma, almost smell that aroma, so you summon the bartender over.
It is Servalan, on a catamaran, executing a smart bossa nova.
With a nasty mutoid whom you'd rather avoid, as she's yearning to you disembowel,
"Now let's not be hasty, I'm not very tasty," she still comes so you throw in the towel.
This phrase metaphorical has results diabolical for you and the Supreme Commander
Are now planting late tulips and drinking mint juleps on Residence One's fine verandah.
As the last one is done, she pulls out a gun and you groan, "Not again" and "Oh dear."
But just then comes the Klute who is playing the flute and quoting large chunks of Shakespeare.
You don't want to dally, oh good here is Cally, your bracelet she holds in her hand;
But as you reach out, she gives you a clout, and the bracelet sinks into green sand.
Lots of pink asteroids, all bearing mutoids, are hurtling at you as you languish,
But as you take the hint and break into a sprint you awake with a yelp of pure anguish -
You pulse it is racing, you're hyperventilating, your eyes they are popping, your stomach's flip-flopping, your tongue feels all furry, your vision is blurry, your heart is still pounding, your brain it's confounding, you've got cramp in your foot and your slumber's caput, your fists are both clenched, with sweat they are drenched, you could do with a drink for in general you think that you haven't been sleeping in clover -
But Blake's watch has now passed, it's your turn, damn and blast, so the drink has to wait, wouldn't do to be late, anyway I'm already hung-over.
Blake's 7 Index