Disclaimer:  Star Trek is the property of Paramount/Viacom.  This poem is the property of SterJulie and is copyright (c) 2005 by SterJulie.  Rated PG.



Ster Julie


'Twas the day after Mail Call

and all through the ship

half the crew was pouting

with big lower lips.


Because of the mail strike

on Triacus 3,

no delivery was possible

from Sector B.


Some crew received letters.

Mr. Spock got a box

with two pairs of hand-knitted,

warm woolen socks.


Captain Kirk got two love letters.

Uhura got three.

Mr. Scott got a tech manual

straight from Dundee.


Sulu got sake.

Chekov got lox.

Nurse Chapel got something

In a pink-striped box!


But McCoy, like half

of the rest of the crew,

got nothing, though

expecting a bottle or two.


"Not fair!" cried the doc.

"Do something!" Jim heard,

but he uttered no sound,

no, nary a word.


"Share some of your loot!

Give us just one letter.

Perhaps then the crew

will start to feel better."


The crew that received

the usual things

sorted out what –to them-

were superfluous tidings.


They shared with the crew

who'd received nothing new,

and figured this ought

to stop their boo-hoos.




The canned ham went to Sol Schultz,

the beef jerky to Ravni Pendara.

the sweet grass smudge bundle

went to Annie O'Hara.


The crew received stuff

from people unknown.

It might not be theirs,

but it was mail from some home.


Soon every piece

of spare letters and boxes,

were shared with sad crewmen,

even Mr. Spock's soxes.