Aviophobia
We’re booked to go by Squalidair.
The bloody plane is just not 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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