If the laser on your phasers are erasing hated enemies,
Or the groans of your opponent means his balls are on his knees,
And the doctor says your spots are signs of alien disease,
But arose with this diagnosis just to show he knows your needs;
You can check if you're a Trekker if you know Kirk's middle name,
And you can sing in Klingon at a party drinking game.
The holodeck is beckoning - you're reckoning on a game,
Of avoiding Vulcan mind-melds which make humanoids insane.

You talk to your computer when you boot her into life,
And you've got a Driver's License for the Starship Enterprise,
Your tribbles nibble kibble which was meant for your felines,
And you've got the diagnostics for a new cloaking device.
You've formed uneasy alliances with Kazons and Cardassians,
The Romulans are bombing 'em, the Bajorans are gassing 'em,
Your shuttles manage Warp Speed Twelve but other ships are passing 'em,
And long-range sensors show the scene the second it is happening.

Your mother thinks a Vulcan is a British bomber plane,
And your father thinks you're crackers, but he'd better think again,
You heckle all non-Trekkers who expect you to explain,
Your obsession with the series causing Star trek on the brain!


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