Of Planes, Cars And Bars

I don’t care to fly
in a plane way up high.
Flying
rhymes too much with dying,
and though rather old and fat
I’m much too young yet for all of that.
I’d rather travel by car
or sit in a nice quiet bar
having a think
with a cool, refreshing drink.
Pondering those things up in the sky
constantly passing by,
and trying to narrow down
the odds of one falling to the ground.
Or, the chances though slim
of a part flying off at a whim;
and, what if this particular plane or part
had the perfect speed and perfect arc,
to land
exactly where I am?
What then would my grieving friends say,
‘Well, it just musta been his day.’?
– If only I’d been up there,
safe above it all in the air.
Rather than down here on the ground
where all falling things are bound.
Perhaps I’ve acted in haste
with this lack of aeronautical faith.
Now that I’ve thought it through fair,
it does seem indeed much safer in the air.
After all, when I leave this old bar
and I’m driving home in my car,
I could end up with a hefty fine
for simply weaving a bit over the line.
But, in that shiny new jetliner
as long as I’m not a minor,
I’m free to have a few
and leave the driving to the pilot and crew.