This poem is written based on a familiar family anecdote from my great uncle Fred, who was a pilot in the First World War (RFC) and absolutely hated flying, but tolerated it as the lesser of two evils.
My Uncle Fred said
There are few things as crazy
As teaching a man how to fly
But nevertheless
He felt fresh as a daisy
While soaring around in the sky
For he looked at the ground
Through the canvas and wood
And was sure that his way was the best
He insisted it sound
If not ethically proved
So the Flying Corps flew on his chest
For it’s better by far
He would whisper to Nan
To be perched in the lap of the Gods
And be laughed at and scorned
In each pub, club and bar
That be shot at and drowning in mud
So when given the choice
To be burned to a crisp
By a passing balloon and cigar
He had taken his chance
Floating up in the clouds
With the birds and the air and the fear
And he swore a strong oath
At the powers that were
Irresponsibly running the thing
For he must be a fool
To be choosing to trust
In a glorified tent, wheels and wings
Yet he couldn’t deny
While his faculties ruled
That it made far more sense to steer clear
Than be ‘trenched in a war
In a hole in the ground
With the other poor buggers down there
My great grandfather was also involved in the First World War. He joined the Canadian infantry under age and came home full of shrapnel, having been promoted very fast for a seventeen year old, twice left for dead on the battlefield, and stripped of his dog tags by mistake, so his family got quite a shock when he returned from war as they had been told he was among the fallen. He married a nurse as was relatively common (and sensible in his condition as he had to live with the shrapnel all his life). I never knew him personally, as by the time I came along he was no longer with us, but by all accounts, he was a man of relatively few words and infinite patience.
Katherine Shirley 