To Bed, Perchance to Please

The Queen of Klingon aristocracy
shows off her battle curves, brown-sugar tan,
while I of Irish-oatmeal pedigree
work out, in silence, a seduction plan.

For days I listened to her spiel (past dusk)
‘bout how she took the Qo’noS deathmatch prize.
Half-cut on wine and the coquettish musk,
all I hear now is Bette Davis Eyes.

But then a tear unmasks her vaunted mist,
her forehead wavelets strain. Of this unease,
dumbstruck, I ask, “More on your bucket list?”
“An earthling man — I want to bed and please.”

On warp my starship streaks past Pluto’s shore,
to boldly go where no man’s gone before.