Joy Flight Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I have a friend who is a cowboy,
he flies fast jets for Uncle Sam,
persuaded me to come along
'twas a Sunday in September.


Smart uniform, exotic helmet,
strapped in behind a crazy guy.
He handed me a largish bag
that had blue string around the neck.

'Hold on to this, you may not need it',
he said on take-off, up we went,
we reached five g when your whole bod
gets heavy and you cannot wave.

Or speak, or lift your hand or grab
the pilot by the shoulder grimly,
the bag was used then, held by hands
that did belong to other sprits.

I told him how the flight was fun
but others did deserve a chance
so I'd stand back for two, three years
remembering that string-choked bag.