Oh for the wings of any bird other than a battery hen

One of Bob Calvert's finest: Hawkwind's Spirit of the Age.



I've always loved the words, which work as a great SF story, or as a poem, so here goes.

I would've liked you to have been deep frozen too
And waiting still as fresh in your flesh for my
return to earth
But your father refused to sign the forms to freeze you
Let's see you'd be about 60 now, and long dead
by the time I return to earth
My time held dreams were full of you as you were
when I left, still underage
Your android replica is playing up again
it's no joke
When she comes she moans another's name
But that's the spirit of the age, that's the
spirit of the age
I am a clone, I am not alone
Every fibre of my flesh and bone is identical to
the others
Everything I say is in the same tone as my test
tube brother's voice
And there's no choice between us, if you had ever
seen us you'd rejoice in your uniqueness
And consider every weakness something special of
your own
Being a clone I have no flaws to identify
Even this doggerel that pours from my pen
Has just been written by another twenty
telepathic men
Word for word it says
"Oh, for the wings of any bird other than a
battery hen".