Monday, June 20, 2011

Bugs In My Teeth

The sun just started its morning climb,  get dressed and out of them ‘jama’s,
Brush your teeth and comb your hair, you look like Bigfoot’s Mama.
Grab your motor, grab your wing, and get on out to the field,
There’s sites to see, for you and me, it’s gonna be a thrill.

My wing spread wide, the lines all straight, my beeners secure at the clip,
The grass is wet, must watch my step, so I don’t start sliding and slip.
Bertha is purring, she’s ready to go, just waiting on a squeeze of the trigger,
I pick out my spot and start running a lot, my grin it couldn’t be bigger.

It takes me a while, but in under a mile, I finally have air just below me,
Slowly at first, cuz gas she does thirst, but soon she starts climbing more quickly.
We fly over here, and we fly over there, to see all the sites there below us,
The chickens,  potatoes, the corn maze, tomatoes, the cows that look at us in chorus.

And sometimes it’s fun, to fly way down low, to watch all the sites at our feet,
The perspective of speed is all that I need, when flying in fields of tall wheat.
A wake I do leave, or sometimes a hole, if I don’t judge my airspeed correctly,
I’ve crashed once or twice, or maybe its thrice, where they’ve had to send someone to get me.

But usually I launch and return on my own, to gas up and go for another,
It may be up high, right up in the sky or maybe down here in ground cover.
I’m grinning for sure just zoom in and look at my wing where I’m sitting beneath,
I know this is true, It may have  happened to you, cuz I’m grinning with bugs in my teeth.


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