View Full Version : poetry

tony draper
18th Sep 2001, 15:40
I noticed we have some talented people aboard these forums, and as Draper has only recently discovered this art form and has developed a great liking or such people as Kipling and Service,none of that Daffodil or lovey dovey nonsence nonesence mind you.
In keeping with the orders of Sir Prune, they must have at least tenuous relationship to aviation.
Here is Drapers first effort, you will note some plagerism is allowed.

Heres one for you Mr TW
not up to your standard and a tad of plagerism
what the hell Draper is a man of science
not the arts.

The Geordie lament

No more along the banks of tyne
I'll rove in autumn grey.
No more the clang of shipyards
will greet my waking day
I must to london town be off
my fortune for to seek,
a job as flying cabin crew
shall be mine next week,
I shall miss my foggy hills,
the River Tyne amd Wear
but the thing that burns my soul
the most,
Is having to turn queer.

18th Sep 2001, 17:08
Tony’s skills are often seen,
Via the image on a camera screen.
He erects CCTV you see,
To enhance banks’ security.

This reassures the pretty teller,
Until he asks her to see his cellar,
And meet all the lovely friends he’s made
With parts he’s dug up with his spade.

Tony’s really a charming man,
Ask Gerund…his biggest fan.

18th Sep 2001, 17:15
Not really poetry, but a patriotic ode to one of my favorite foods:

I pledge allegiance,
To the can,
Of the perfect food that is Tuna.
And to the fishy,
For which it cans,
One Portion ...
Just for me,
With Mayo,
And crackers on top.


tony draper
18th Sep 2001, 17:16
The FJ Pilot

My mane is Godfrey Hampten Smythe,
FJ pilot I.
I drive a shiny war machine,
and rush about the sky.
But when the last mud has been moved
the last Mig sent in early.
Its quickly back to base I fly.
And dress up like a girly. ;)

[ 18 September 2001: Message edited by: tony draper ]

18th Sep 2001, 17:17
Tony D, your sad tale does little to shed light in these dark and troubled days. My contribution is prompted by sympathy alone (I almost said fellow feeling, but some would be sure to misinterpret):

Add, divide, and multiply,
And then again subtract,
Attractions that make you apply
To take up this new act.

The cynic says I’m here for pelf?
But that’s unjust: I’d give myself,
All that I am, to do my duty.
But must I be a tutti-frutti?

The travel, flying, money: good!
Some hesitations on the food?
And I’m good too! A likely comer...
But MUST I also be a bummer?

tony draper
18th Sep 2001, 17:28
Oh how I want those four gold bars.
I want them really bad,
To sit upon the left hand seat
would really make me glad.
But many names above me,
it really makes me sad
The prussic acid's in his drink, I hope there is no mess.
Yes many names above mine , tommorrow theres one less.

[ 18 September 2001: Message edited by: tony draper ]

Tricky Woo
19th Sep 2001, 12:29
The Pilot
by Tricky 'William Blake' Woo

Pilot, pilot, flying high,
In the ocean of the sky,
Name some other office job
Where hosties try to grab your knob.

But while the life itself is sunny
There's a shameful lack of money.
(Excuse me if I seem detracting,
There's nothing like IT contracting).

Though now you laugh at PPLs
Once too you practiced PFLs.
Do you remember your first landing?
How little pride was then left standing?

So now you fly a big Airbus
And press the buttons like a wuss.
Or maybe Boeing makes your 'plane,
Who cares! To me, they're just the same.

Whoever says that they're real flying
Should be scorned for worthless lying.
Maybe the girls have some belief,
Before they give you hand-relief.

Pilot, pilot, flying high,
In the ocean of the sky,
Name some other office job
Where hosties try to grab your knob.

19th Sep 2001, 14:58
nicked this from another site
(ooh just like traveler does :p )

I hope there's a place,way up in the sky,
Where Pilots can go,when they have to die.
A place where a guy could buy a cold beer
For a friend and comrade whose memory is dear.
A place where no doctor or lawyer could tread,
Nor a management type would e're be caught dead!
Just a quaint little place; kind of dark, full of smoke,
Where they like to singloud, and love a good joke.
The kind of place,where a lady could go
And feel safe and protected by the men she would know.

There must be a place where old pilots go
When their wings get too weary, and their airspeed gets low.
Where the whiskey is old and the women are young,
And songs about flying and dying are sung,
Where you'd see all the fellows who'd flown west before,
And they'd call out your name, as you came thru the door,
Who would buy you a drink, if your thirst should be bad
And relate to the others, "He was quite a good lad!"

And then thru the mist you'd spot an old guy
You had not seen in years, though he'd taught you to fly.
He'd nod his old head and grin ear to ear,
And say, "Welcome my son, I'm pleased that you're here!"
For this is the place where true flyers come
When the battles are over, and the wars have been won.
They've come here at last to be safe and afar
From the government clerk and the management czar,
Politicians and lawyers, the feds and the noise,
Where all hours are happy, and these good old boys
Can relax with a cool one, and a well-deserved rest!
This is Heaven, my son,you've passed your last test!!!!

Captain Michael Larkin; TWA (Retired)