An Ode to Colonel Saul Tigh
Drunk was the Colonel Saul Tigh,
when the Cylons came to destroy mankind.
On New Caprica, they tore out his eye,
so he bombed them tin bitches half blind.
He stood on the bridge of the Battlestar ship,
thinking of whiskey like a son of a bitch.
Between shit hitting fans, he’d retire for a nip,
and avert certain disaster while totally blitzed.
Never one for politics, he fought the good fight,
and led the resistance with no depth perception.
After a setback he’d booze up all night,
and keep drinking as hangover contraception.
He poisoned his wife and murdered recruits,
with unrelenting, if hazy, moral vision.
And never easing up on the alcohol abuse,
he started to have glitchy premonitions.
Now, rooms fall quiet when he stumbles in,
wrinkled coat spotted with drool,
and salty-white stubble smelling of gin,
flying high and hammered, he rules.
Barking orders, all sweat and scowl
with one black eye and a raspy growl,
he makes the tough-ass tactical decisions,
fierce as a Viper decked out with munitions.
Keeping it real, killing toasters, the XO.
Wait. What? He’s a Cylon. Frak no!