Fly you through, fly you low,
talk to yourself in the last airport,
feasting your eyes on all the walking candy.
Books opened to the same page for hours,
tobacco between your flaring worn nostrils.
Talks about kids, how much trouble they are,
folding chairs stalking the more beautiful.
Playing ball with some of the lost luggage,
laid out over three seats for a few minutes.
Lifting your legs as the babies crawl apiece,
holding down your waste from their last course.
Fly you long, fly you high,
the dragons burn up a hundred more,
better not dare to talk out of turn.
Watch all this line empty into a side wound,
squeeze the rest of the paste from its tube.
Wind up for the last boring repetitive lecture,
one glimpse past the scratches in the tiny window.
Listen to their noise as cultured conversation,
five hours held to another one’s failed standard.
Survey a mass feeding as you’d rather get some sleep,
holding down these pieces with bits of wire and dreams.
Fly you short, fly you down,
this didn’t look like such a good idea,
a prisoner without a defense or a trial.
The readings are all wrong but the message isn’t heeded,
you’re pinned and pressured fatally lost among the seated.
Their angry shouts are certainly louder than the screams,
as arms kick and legs shake towards all the openings.
Dashing for the exits as the horde flips their ride,
causes a generous spray from this rotten fruit basket.
A drug of fright takes you to the top of this diving tail,
as the final looks make you think you were right all along.
Sharwrong's Song 