With apologies to Casabianca:
The cab sat on the pitching deck,
Blades spinning round the head;
The gyro force that would try to wreck,
Was missing feared dead.
Yet steadfast were the critics stood,
‘Precession is the norm’
They spake as if ‘twas writ in blood,
A proud, though childlike form.
The deck it rolled, the disc it flapped,
Yet tip path plane it stayed in place;
The argument, now tightly wrapped,
A rotor’s not rigid in space.