They must exist, given such expanse:
beings civilized, advanced,
draw from their celestial flutes
such music as creation might
have whistled as it went alight.
And also others. more like us,
who pay two bucks to ride the bus.
Nothing living doesn’t need:
all our gods have had their feed.
We’re in progress, a juicy cut
of tenders in the cosmic gut,
digested as we reason why.
May we not be scooped by
some fastidious master race,
one more galactic breach of taste.