We Are Not Cute, We Are From Space Poem by Arron Fowler

Move over beings, this planet is ours
Stealing your women, for a fatal feast
We're not little green men, we're raging beasts
We zap with lazers, don't come with flowers.
Intergalactic warlords, that is us
Pearcing loud voices, are the sound of screams
Running your presidents behind the scenes
Wiping out your race, is certain a must.
You puny microscopic tiny wee specs
So we're invading your home, What can you expect.
It's time for a new race yours is over
Make a small wish with your four leaf clovers.