The Day the Boys Set Out To Fly
Larry was the oldest, seemed every day he grew
Bubbling with mischief, like a cackling witches brew
At the time just 10 or so, but that’s a long way back
Humorously independent, the joker of his pack.
And then came Jan, smiling face of missing teeth
Radiating freckles, a tomboy underneath
Followed by little Davey, and his demon dog named Stiff
Really good at misbehaving, or some real mischief.
There are potent spells a witch can cast, riding on her broom
Sorcerers tricks from ages past, weaving trickery on her loom
To ferment a brew with some illusion, and a spell or two
With spirit salts and then confusion, to make her schemes come true
Johnny was the toddler, did pretty much as told
Shook his rattle, sucked his thumb, let his world unfold
So that’s team, the whole groundcrew, dynamic young and bold
With dreams and schemes of their machines, something to behold
With sticks and gum and elastic bands, a runway made of tiles,
Perched upon the old shed roof, it could be seen for miles
Gleaming in the evening sun , the plane was quite a feat
A firecracker in an upturned pail, as an ejector seat
A barnyard roof may not seem high, 20 feet I’d guess,
The main thing was to make dad proud, something to impress
But to the boys quite high enough, for their first flight test
To act like men by doing good, and sticking to their quest.
The plane was much too hard to move, even with all three trying
They ignored the pilots grumblings, leaving Johnny close to crying
What it really needed was a magic wand, the ones that sorcerers use,
One with proper magic powers, that could also light the fuse.
One more shove is all we’ll need, lets give it one more try
I’m guessing theres trick to this, to making this thingfly.
Then Abracadabra he had the thought, that used a pole and levers.
Come on now, You’ll all be proud, we’ll show them non-believers
See it’s already at the edge, nothing can stop us now.
But as the plane started to tilt, sweat on the pilot’s brow
Litltle Johnny started to sob, and could not hold back his tears,
And within the nearby kitchen, the cry fell on someone’s ears,
What wicked spells a witch can cast, as she rides apon her broom
Using evil tricks from ages past, and illusions weaved by loom
But that’s no match for a prairie mother, running with a scream
With terror in her eyes, to end an evil scheme.
Copyright © Andrew Martin | Year Posted 2015
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