RC poem
06-22-2005, 06:12 AM
#1
RC poem
below is a poem from an old magazine ad that one of my club members gave me. I've added a copy of the ad as well for interest sake. Email me if you'r interested in a large scanned copy of the ad.
The Man With The Little Blue Box
I married a guy with his mind in the sky
And a heart full of wonderful plans.
But now I am told that these plans are controlled
by the little blue box in his hands
He belongs to a group, a most curious troup,
Whose principal purpose, it seems,
Is to gather a crowd, and then gaze at a cloud
While clutching a box full of dreams
They work night and day, but to them it is play;
They would rather fly airplanes than eat
The weather won’t stay them, winds merely delay them,
For their stuff is too stern for defeat.
The planes that they pilot are prone to run riot,
If it crashes they don’t seem to care,
With some balsa and glue, and a gadget or two,
They soon have it back in the air
Some planes have been known to take off on their own,
Sending pilots in hot hurried chase.
It’s a school of hard knocks, but they don’t blame the box,
And the wreck is brought home in disgrace.
But I’ll stick by the man with the box in his hand,
Though it may put grey hairs on my head.
I will not complain; if it weren’t for that plane
He’d probably chase women instead.
The Man With The Little Blue Box
I married a guy with his mind in the sky
And a heart full of wonderful plans.
But now I am told that these plans are controlled
by the little blue box in his hands
He belongs to a group, a most curious troup,
Whose principal purpose, it seems,
Is to gather a crowd, and then gaze at a cloud
While clutching a box full of dreams
They work night and day, but to them it is play;
They would rather fly airplanes than eat
The weather won’t stay them, winds merely delay them,
For their stuff is too stern for defeat.
The planes that they pilot are prone to run riot,
If it crashes they don’t seem to care,
With some balsa and glue, and a gadget or two,
They soon have it back in the air
Some planes have been known to take off on their own,
Sending pilots in hot hurried chase.
It’s a school of hard knocks, but they don’t blame the box,
And the wreck is brought home in disgrace.
But I’ll stick by the man with the box in his hand,
Though it may put grey hairs on my head.
I will not complain; if it weren’t for that plane
He’d probably chase women instead.
