by Nick Gisburne
His manner was exceptionally rude
An artificial birth is no excuse
Appearing on the street, completely nude
I don’t know why the future let him loose
Of course, we wrapped him quickly in a sheet
Jemima panicked; I was more robust
He limped inside the house and took a seat
The man was riddled, utterly, with rust
The office, I was sure, would understand
I took a day, to get him on his feet
However, what he claimed, and what he planned
Were notions no psychiatrist could treat
He came to stop an ‘alien attack’
I only hope the bugger won’t be back
