by Nick Gisburne
His cannons punch a jagged hole in space
The stoned, psychotic commandant guffaws
Enthusiastic raiders join the chase
As groggy as the chief, they pound their paws
No hesitation, swift to skirt the star
A dozen roasted rebels cruise too close
For this, these fools of fortune flew so far
One touch, one taste, is worth the overdose
A thousand trappers target-lock the beast
The biggest any one of them has seen
Still baked, the boss man orders them released
They catch it, steamed and smoking, cracked but clean
A psychedelic planet is the prize
But only freaks and junkies brave the highs
