The Fighter Pilot Poem by Loke Kok yee

A fighter pilot’s life it has been said is really second to none.
But ask the guy sitting on the hot seat and he’ll say it’s not much fun.

Every time he goes to fly, his aircraft is always parked at the far end.
Humping a chute, that’s half his weight and the steps yet to ascend.

Long before the engine starts, he’ll be wet and drenched with sweat,
An hour strapped in his little cockpit, going through his pre-start checks.

Taking off in formation; whether in pair or threes is really quite a breeze,
But in weather foul and the runway’s wet, his blood then will freeze.

If his engine quits on take-off, well below the safe ejection height.
He’ll be falling like a ton of bricks and nought to save him from his plight.

Hang around in the stratosphere and it will soon take a toll on his brain.
Hypoxia will set in, and all mental and physical control he cannot retain.

Pulling high “G” forces and prolonged will only bring him the piles.
There have been rather serious cases, where people became sterile.

Flying around at supersonic speed, does not give him bragging rights.
As soon as the barrier is broken, it is just moving the stick left or right.

And his biggest fear from what I hear is to have a nasty stomach ache.
When his “G” suit inflates, his tummy deflates, boy! What a mess it’ll make.

Trying to get home with fuel running low, he has only one chance to land.
With a crosswind and in pouring rain, he’ll need more than a steady hand.

The ladies they swoon when he struts around, flaunting his B.M.W.
But they’ll realise soon that he’s a louse, when it’s time to foot the bill.

He’s in his element sitting in the bar, on the piss while swigging beer.
He’ll tell his tales as only a fighter pilot can, but no one is around to hear.

But he doesn’t care and he’ll carry on, with an occasional run to the loo.
To the disbelief of all, next day he’ll be flying and that without much ado.