That would be Icarus syndrome, Ann. Oh I forgot to say, nice one David. Here's an airport one.
In a Jam
We’re booked to go by Squalidair.
The plane (you’ve guessed it) isn’t there
For hours and hours and God knows why.
Without a plane we cannot fly.
I love a ship, a train, a car.
I cannot love a winged cigar,
Plus passport/ticket/visa crap,
Plus baggage magicked off the map,
Nor yet the deserts we have made
Where aeroplanes can ply their trade:
The tacky bars, the pricey shops,
The toilets blocked with horrid slops,
The queues that snake from here to here,
The smell of sweat, the stink of fear,
The fear we do not care to name,
Of crashing in a sheet of flame.
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