‘He’s fairly insane,’ the doctors all said,
‘When his father died he went quite strange in head.’
When he hit fourteen years they locked him up tight,
But not before the Enterprise bridge held his sight,
He stood in the turbolift, just for a glance,
His mother asked nicely if there was a chance,
He could have a quick tour there. Requests were denied,
He sat in the turbolift, started to cry,
So enamoured was he of this ship and its crew,
When he couldn’t take part he knew not what to do,
And on that first mission his mind suddenly snapped,
And fell into madness and never came back.
Now he sits in his cell, all padded and soft
And dreams that the Enterprise bore him aloft,
To planets and stations and faraway stars,
While really he’s stuck here, behind iron bars,
This might seem farfetched, but I see no other reason,
A boy could save the ship seven times in one season.
He serves at the helm, he’s best friends with the crew,
Even though he’s a kid, with Starfleet to get through,
No, he sits in his cell with his manic delusions,
And all of his capers were merely illusions,
A child at the helm, does that really seem right?
Or is he locked up in a cell soft and white?
Where tablets and trances and pills are his norm,
That’s a strait-jacket, not a uniform.
They covered it up mind, Starfleet was wise,
Staged a mass mourning of this boy’s ‘demise.’
But still all the officers say to each other,
‘Whatever did happen to young Wesley Crusher?’