Gordon In Space
I wish I could soar like a spaceman,
On a missile, a booster, a rocket,
And fly for a year and a day's span,
Paracetamol packed in my pocket.
I know I've a top-of-the-league brain,
And can mend the economy's mess,
But although I might suffer a migraine,
It could offer relief from distress:
Yes, to travel from planet to planet,
To hop from the Moon, off to Mars –
It can't be more stressful than Earth, can it?
I wish I could dance with the stars.
With a laser-gun locked in my holster,
And some Nurofen stored in my pod,
I'd evade every pundit and pollster.
I'd feel power, consulting with God.
I could sleep! Ah, the sound of it's snuggly.
I might travel through time, and, perhaps,
Though I came back as short, fat and ugly,
Sort the banks out before they collapse.
Oh yes, I'd have shrunk, suffered hair-loss,
Be a pill-popping cause for much laughter.
But the bankers would know me as their boss,
So we'd all live on happily after.
Plump up my favourite cushion:
Rest my head on my antimacassar.
There is space in my diary. Let's push on.
Let Barack put a word in with NASA.
Read the Telegraph story about space headaches here
Read the Telegraph story about the effects of space travel here