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Frat, I have got to get that
Extruder fixed. I am
Half a flip outside of the docking bay
With nothing left to force me up,

Until you bring in that Fredonian
Deep space freighter and nudge
Just enough thrust in my direction
That up my half-scrap ship pops

And, click, the docking bands kiss.
I don’t care what they say about
Fredonians and their fast twelve fingers
Askew on their suspiciously coiled arms:

You saved me one cold space walk
And a surcharge on docking fees.
I don’t care what the Regati believe,
I believe, frat, that I like you anyway.

I’ll even dance,
If you keep your fingers in sight
And leave the heat lamp on.