No problem. I’ll just refer the matter to the tentacled polyester leisure-suited trees and the oboe playing fiddler crabs, they’ll play their entire repertoire of bad lounge tunes repeatedly, and voila! (walla? viola?), the Romulans will flee in terror as if I’m running after them singing, “Put on your old grey bonnet with the blue ribbons on it...” and “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.” So there.
That’ll work!