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JUNKYARD DOGGEREL

When first we into space did bound
With spirits just as high,
A pristine ambiance we found,
To set our compass by.

The capsules did their duty well
And splashed back down to earth.
Red Sputnik’s flight had rung the bell;
Space had lost all its mirth.

Then, J-F-K set up the mark;
The moon was now Goal One.
We had perforce to fly or park;
Before ten years were done.

The moon we touched and left our print;
The future now was breached.
We carried on with other stints;
Naught was out of our reach.

A station out in space we built
With others from our world.
There’s always someone on the tilt,
In orbit all unfurled.

We’ve sent up satellites galore,
Our senses there to sate.
They are our eyes and ears, the core
Of info on our plate.

Some of the things we’ve flung out there
Do come apart, we know.
Some of it gone, we know not where;
Some fallen here below.

The poetry has somewhat dulled
As to our quest in space.
From what the scientists have culled,
There’s come a lot of waste.

Perhaps that term is too polite.
We see hunk after hunk
Endangering some future flight—
Colliding there with junk.

Now, there’s a problem—who‘da thought,
A few short years ago;
Our safety out there would be fraught
With waste from here below.

So, let’s get started; get involved;
The out-world’s gone to hell!
It certainly will not be solved
With junkyard doggerel.

(‘Twould not be fair to intimate
That space was all that clean.
For, there’s a wee “dark matter,” mate,
That barely can be seen.)

Mankind is determined to destroy itself in one way or another.
We are way ahead of schedule!!
It's too late for any meaningful bail out, I fear!
Tommy D