They say that flying’s all routines,
No magic left, it’s all machines,
To airline pilots, my humble words
A special bunch, with special birds.
I’ve seen the cockpits crammed with screens
Inventions drawn from high tech dreams,
Where coloured graphics plot your course
And yokes that move by unseen force.
I’m told that ships can fly alone
And folks in back can use the phone
While movie screens come into view
They lounge in seats, not one but two.
The market groups with all their style
I’ll bet they’ve never worked the aisle,
The office types and builders too
Should plan their ships around the crew.
I gaze in wonder from my place,
A giant wing looms out in space,
Below a sea of vapors wave,
To be up front is what I crave.
I dreamed so long to know the sky
And now it’s real, I’ve learned to fly,
Down deep inside you’re still the same
No matter how they’ve changed the game.
A ship with wings can change in size
But one things' sure, a pilot’s eyes,
Command a view that no box can,
That makes the techs an also ran.
They pass me trays of food and drink,
My mind drifts back and starts to think,
Of open cockpits rimmed by ice,
And those who flew and paid the price.
The people here don’t seem to know
In fact they act like down below,
They take for granted ships that fly
And those who guide them through the sky.
So here’s to you that keeps us all,
I know you’re there and I won’t fall,
A wing tip moves as if to say,
There’s someone here, no need to pray.
So let them build their boxes new,
As tools to help, I’m sure that’s true,
It’s not my place to reason why,
But builders build and PILOTS FLY.
Now when I’m in my ship so frail,
And look above to watch your trail,
I’ll wish you well my friend so high
And know inside it’s still our sky.
by Patrick J. Phillips
