Richard Branson’s Spaceport in New Mexico is almost ready to send ‘space tourists’ off on a two-and-a-half hour jolly, for $200,000 a pop.
I’d give two hundred thousand dollars
To travel through the lost
Expanse of waste in outer space.
What luck. That’s just the cost.
I would not spend my hard-earned wad
On sturgeon or a surgeon
Or pay for more to help the poor.
So thanks, Sir Richard Virgin.
Now when I’m on a Branson train
That’s running very late
I’ll get to gloat at those who float
Above us, stripped of weight,
And when the automatic doors
Fly open to the touch
I’ll dream of trips on mother-ships.
Oh Richard, thanks so much.
And when the tannoy grates my ears
And excuses are climactic
I’ll raise a toast to those who boast
That they have gone Galactic.
Or when my patience, stopped at stations,
Gives out, or is eroding,
I’ll say my prayers that millionaires
May be, above, exploding.