Made in America, sturdy and robust,

Full of curves and supple grace,

An elegant bird of prey, rippling with power,

Stood on the golden sun-kissed beach;

The sea and the sky in an azure blend,

In the middle was the plane on the sand

Like an overfed goldfish dozing in its tank.
 
 

The natives, out of curiosity,

Turned up in numbers by the sea.

Heads upturned, they looked at me,

In the chariot of the Gods from history.

They stared with awe, and longing too

For the company of the Gods that flew.

But I'd give my counsel to them too -

Flying only satisfies the lunatic in you.
 
 

A life spent growing yams, I'd say,

Or wielding the pen on a winter's day,

Is better than one that's wrenched away,

When Dame Luck deserts you on a bad day.

Toeing the line between being and nothingness

Needs an overdose of luck, I must confess.

But then, you'd call me a hypocrite,

For preaching, and not practicing it.
 
 

So this is the last time, George darling,

In the quest for glory, I'll take wing.

After this we'll pool in our last dime,

And buy a farm in a sunnier clime,

There to enjoy the prime of our years...

But hark! They've thrown the plane into gear!

With a roar that wakes the Almighty,

The propellers start to turn - all three!
 
 

From the ranks of the natives goes up a loud cheer,

A hop, a skip, a jump, and bravo! We're in the air!
 
 

Part-II
 
 

The wind sings wispily in my ears,

It musses up my curly hair -

Just the way you like it, George.

It pulls the plane, drifts it off course

It whips away all futile words,

And leaves me in speechless wonder,

Just like on our honeymoon night,

When no words were between us - just kisses.
 
 

An icy wind hits me, like a solid cliff,

My hands are numb, fingers frozen stiff

To the controls - it's all I can do,

To keep the plane steady, and airborne too.

Swiftly, inexorably downward she swings,

The wind cuts in, rips off half the right wing,

"Stay calm in an emergency" was my training,

"This is it", says another voice, with a funereal ring.
 
 

So this is where it ends, George, lover,

As a pilot, I've always been the adventurer,

So blithely, I ignored my own sage advice,

I flew on, unmindful of this precipice,

George, oh George! I love you so much, alas!

Why am I, at this inopportune moment, forced to depart?

Why is the burning flame of ardor within,

Destined to be extinguished on God's whim?
 
 

The Pacific, its green knobbly skin pulsating and alive,

Merging with the opal sky in the distance,

Its gaping maw, and rows upon rows of clashing waves,

Like gnashing teeth - waiting for an unexpected treat,

To fall from the sky - and be devoured with gusto;

For bitter is the end of this romance with the airplane,

Future generations should remember me as an enigma;

A pilot of skill and daring, done in by persistence and ill-fortune.
 
 

So George, my time has come - I bid you tearful adieu,

I've just died for my cause; but I didn't want to hurt you.