It's been nine long months since I minced the prop
I've lost count of the times it's been back to the shop
They said it was the timing, they said it was the mags
But after every fix the Lycoming ponies ran like old nags
They eyed the pistons, they suspected the rings
But no matter what I couldn't fly my wings
I begged and pleaded with the insurance and the engineer
I hovered over the mechanic so much he suspected I was odd
With no end in sight, hope surrendered to depression
Would I ever get better than low sixties on the compression
It fouled the plugs and burned oil like a bastard.
Thoughts of writing the Maule off as a total disaster
But today a test flight was flown with a prayer for better luck
It finally ran like a dream making me as happy as Larry.