T H E
W E E K E N D
B A L LO O N I S T
Those wonderful weekend balloonists So whimsical, warm and sincere Always forgetting their check-lists But never side-stepping a beer They rise at the fart of a sparrow All eager to get in the sky Even when chilled to the marrow There’s menace afoot in their eye
They float over fields and fairways Occasionally shooting in flame And it’s never just one of those days Because no flight is ever the same
If the landing field is stubbly The farmer will likely play ball There’s a toast with a bottle of bubbly And a prayer that makes no sense at all Then it’s off to a close greasy spoon For a full English, strong tea and toast Fill the tanks for the late afternoon When ballooning can bring on a thirst
And thus when the pub lights are glowing Down at the Old Hare and Hounds There’s the crew with no clue where it’s going And a pilot whose down. Out of bounds
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