There’s a poem in the New Yorker. It’s called Alien vs. Predator. Reads like nerdcore hip-hop bluster run back-and-forth through Google Translate too many times. I like it:
That elk is such a dick. He’s a space tree
making a ski and a little foam chiropractor.
I set the controls, I pioneer
the seeding of the ionosphere.
I translate the Bible into velociraptor.