(After The Mikado, by Gilbert and Sullivan)
Should I become producer of Blakes 7, series five,
I've got a little list, I've got a little list,
Of things our heroes will not meet (at least those left alive),
They'd none of them be missed, they'd none of them be missed.
Such as presidents who skip through mud in flowing lacey gowns,
All planets full of buddleia, where cawing rooks abound.
The Federation cruiser that looks rather like a toy,
The futuristic costume fashioned out of corduroy,
And teleporting bracelets that can hop from wrist to wrist,
They'd none of them be missed, they'd none of them be missed.
Old lovers resurrected for a tragic interlude,
Then consigned to join the list - 'Dead as soon they've been kissed'.
And heavies with a fighting skill that's best described as crude
(They lean to take the fist, like they're rather Brahms and Liszt).
All characters whose names contain the letters Z or X,
The squeak of rubber running shoes on wooden spaceship decks,
The wounds that barely injure and show no intent to bleed,
The hairy savage primitives, all scripts by Mr Steed,
And aliens who speak English like an Oxford classicist,
They'd none of them be missed, they'd none - of them - be - missed.