by Nick Gisburne
The final tank is fitted to the hull
Two dismal days will fill it to the brim
With human soup, the bodies of the cull
A thick, fermented fuel, greasy, grim
The Six, a shameful number, only six
Prepare for launch, the saviours of their kind
Survivors from a scheme of spiteful tricks
They slither to the shells they are assigned
The host, a sombre, sentient display
Evaluates their chances of success
A star, a home, a future, far away
Another world to conquer, to possess
The ship decides the Six are better dead
And spares the sprawling cosmos from their spread
