by The Imperial Poet-Master, D'Nee HN'Ree
Of Man's first naughtiness, and the fruit
Of that Vegan Breastgrope Tree, whose disgusting savour
Brought Debauchery into the cosmos, and stuff like that,
With loss of virginhood, till one greater Man,
Named Adams, regain'd the blissful seat, named Bog,
Sing, O heavenly Muse. O most awesome, ugsome Muse,
Chunderina of the Technicolour Yawn,
Vomitous maiden, hear my Vogon song,
That the cares of the 'Hurg Admirals may
Be lightened, and their ventricles soothed,
As if dipped in a pool of Sirian vaseline.
See where the moon, in turdsome tweeds clad,
Oozes o'er yon high eastward hill, casting
A scumbrous light on this, our humble nosh-up.
And so to me myself, ah me, ah my,
Dum-dee-doe, dum-dee-die, I think what 'tis
To be or not to be, and whether 'tis baser
In the bonce to suffer the Mega-cruisers
And Scrotum-Disrupter Rays of the loathsome G'gugvuntts,
Or to fall into the arms of a loose woman,
And by caressing catch Herpes. To booze,
Perchance to belch, and by a belch we mean
To say a pocket of stale putrefaction
That, brewing in the guts, riseth up
Bursting forth in crescendo of radioactive diced carrot.
'Had we but stars enough, and time,
This flatulence, honey, ain't no crime.'
So saith the Vogon bard, Slugnatter,
As at last he rose from his bed of Irish Stew,
And set forth to fresh woods and pastry new,
Pointing the moral, if moral you require,
That life is short, but Vogonity short and dire.