I Don't Like Your Friend

More about I Don't Like Your Friend

In a bar of neon and starlight glean,
Two figures stood, by most unseen.
A captain, sturdy, shoulders broad,
A copilot, odd, by humans awed.

His head, horse-like, with eyes of night,
A silent guardian in barroom light.
In this space port, tales unwinding,
Among the stars, their fates binding.

On the other side, faces rough and wild,
Locals, their spirits unreconciled.
Darkened eyes held tales untold,
In this barroom, secrets bold.

The captain's grip, firm on his glass,
Sensed the tension, felt it amass.
With a glance to his equine mate,
Signaled caution, warned of fate.

"Speak your peace, or let us be,"
Rumbled the captain, voice like the sea.
The horse-headed copilot nodded slow,
In his alien gaze, a quiet glow.

Locals stirred, chairs scraped and creaked,
A silence fell, as the captain spoke,
In the tavern, a pin could drop,
As all awaited the coming shock.

"Star-jumpers you are, in our space,
A sight unusual, a foreign trace.
What brings you here, to drink our brew?
Speak truly now, we ask of you."

Captain sighed, a cosmic mariner weary,
Spoke his truth, his eyes quite teary,
"We seek but rest, from stars we've charted,
Peaceful respite," he dearly imparted.

The locals eyed the odd pair with care,
Tension melted into the barroom air.
"One of us, for tonight, you be,
In the heart of the cosmos, all are free."

In the space port bar, under gleaming star,
The cosmos bound them, near and far.
Their tales spun, the night grew long,
In this moment, they all belonged.