Hard knock life, for us

it’s a beautiful day for a soujurn,

perhaps a flyby mission.

but I fear , I hear the sounds of my backups,

the feel of the auxilary systems ,

better run a check, Houston.

Knick knock, they pop, they crickle.

they never spring, those units of my back, those vertebrea will never hold well anymore.

this is not a countdown,

no T-minus stuff. I hope

just too many Gs,

even if it’s just one.

Gravity eccelerates me downwards,

to the well, to the hole.

There is fuel left, thank god,

the rocket still stands,

it just needs a rig,

to hold things up.

so all you,

who wait by the launchpad, grinning.

all of you , doubters, know this:

someday, your time comes crunching, popping.

’Cause the rockets, they change,

but the launchpad stays the same.

and if this truth upsets, friend

come closer,

and wait under the exhaust vent.

this bell can pop as well.

and I dare you, brave space cadets,

to tell me that with all your youth,

with your fully-charged packs,

you take the stairs!