Bound for Argo

When we put into Argo Port to sell our load of goods
We'd heard that it was one of space's tougher neighborhoods.
We had some trepidation that we'd meet hostility
But found them more than welcoming to merchants such as we.

  And we're bound for Argo once again.
  They rate 11, on a scale of one to ten.
  We sold them all we had and could have sold them ten times more--
  I only wish that we'd gone there before.

We've aphrodis-i-acs for every species you will meet.
This greenish stuff has Vulcans going at it in the street.
For Klingons, it depends on if it's for a boy or girl:
For him it's books of poetry; for her it's rocks to hurl.

A gang of Klingons stomped out of a tavern, mad as hell.
They seemed to be unhappy with the drinks and clientele.
The customers were weird, they said, the liquor weak and pale--
They gladly paid full price for all our 307 Ale.

The bars bought out our other stock of every kind of booze,
For theirs had all gone down the throats of thirsty starship crews.
Our medicines flew out the door, at slightly less than c,
For hangovers and headaches and hickeys and VD.

Our roving fix-it personnel were busier than ants:
The cops broke up an orgy-- then we sewed up the pants.
Some moron parked a shuttlecraft on top of City Hall;
They paid us well to get it down before the roof could fall.

The planetwide communication network had been screwed
So all incoming callers were appearing in the nude.
Our software team went through the system with a fine-tooth comb,
And soon we'll have a version you can buy to use at home!

They cleaned us out of dictionaries, tourist books, and such,
Like How to Swear in Vulcan, Standard, Romulan, and Dutch.
The governor's request was strange, considered as a whole:
For books on marriage counseling, and plant and crowd control.