If an alien in a UFO
can cross deep space, then he's bound to know
a thing or two that'll prove worthwhile
like how to get rid of the ironing pile
and who in the heck shot JFK
or why does Letterman laugh that way,
and his techno-gadgetry-gizmo skills
just oughta help some of us pay our bills;
then he could bring peace to the Middle East
and see that my trousers are properly creased,
say why a bunny goes hoppity-hippity,
serve up a surfeit of sweet serendipity.

But, bother the chap, he's a will o' the wisp,
a flibbertegibbet potato crisp;
he'll never stand still and he'll never be snapped
and his little green genome will never be mapped.