Here I am, in a plane,
And I swore to abstain;
I said, 'Never again !'
I've no room to complain;
I could plead a migraine;
I could say that my brain
Had succumbed to the strain;
But no, once again
Here I am, in a plane.
I attempt, all in vain,
My sang-froid to regain;
I try to restrain
Any thought that the plane
Might never reach Spain; *
Can the engines maintain
Their ceaseless refrain ?
Or will some over-strain - ?
I look down. The terrain
Is wild, inhumane . . .
Steward ! Please end this pain !
Bring me hashish ! Cocaine !
Bring me pints of champagne !
Bring a bus ! Bring a train!
Anything but this plane !
Oh, we're down ! And the strain
Is over again;
I alight from the plane
Looking blasť, urbane.
I must be insane . . .

* I ought to explain
I'm not going to Spain, **
But I couldn't obtain
A rhyme other than 'Spain'
Though I tried might and main.
** (It was Glagow, actually)