The Weekend Balloonist

THE WEEKEND BALLOONIST

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