Space
Out in space, there are no crises
Out in space, there's no alarm
Starships scud across its high seas
With an eerie sense of calm
Astronauts may put their ramp down
Knowing that there is no clampdown
Out by Saturn, people perk up
As they hang around the rings
No-one's beaming Captain Kirk up
Since they're doing better things
In a kind of astral heaven
Space is 1967
Out in space, there are no axes
Out in space, there's pleasant void
Out in space there are no taxes
Everyone can be employed
Starships snooze or swing on anchors
No-one's ever heard of bankers
No-one's heard of killing sprees
No-one's heard of oil or flood
No-one worships on their knees
No-one bathes in flesh and blood
No-one thinks of airs and graces
That's how perfect outer space is
If you're lulled to bliss by this
If the sky's your apple-pie
It would be, I think, remiss
Not to say that it's a lie
Out in space, there is concealed
A vast and vacant killing field
