Ahead of us a long haul, a year of distance,

In the cockpit our pre-flight checks complete.

Out of the wind, the path of least resistance,

We plot another year strapped in this seat.

We’ve logged the flightplan, done the

cross-check,

We have enough cunning to cover the

skills we lack.

This is 2018, seen from the flightdeck,

Call ground on 121.9, permission to push back.

Ahead of us hard days, nights of desperation,

The curvature of the Earth awaits us out there.

From the year’s first light to its moment

of cessation,

We’ll roll with the sun behind us, impervious

to its glare.

We’ve locked down the hatches, begun to taxi,

All we know about 2018 is where it will start.

Equipped with everything but the facts we

call the tower on 118.5, permission to depart.

Ahead of us the mountains and the oceans,

Every day a different routing, each night

another vector.

Unaware of the crosswinds, indifferent to

their motions,

We watch the readout on our lightning

detector.

We’ve passed V1, rotate, V2 and positive climb,

Our stick is back, excuse us, we must fly.

All these beacons, we’ve passed them

time after time,

Call departure on 121.85, this is their sky.

Ahead of us the ebb and flow of familiar

seasons,

The autopilot won’t help us, we are

on our own.

We expect some turbulence, and there may be

other reasons

to question the validity of having flown.

Until we switch down from this cruise and

start descending

We must stay focused, the stick held tight

in our hand.

Until December, when we see that familiar

river bending,

And call the tower on 118.5, permission to land.

She’s so flagrant, she tosses coins in the cup

of every vagrant, she’s on the way up,

She’s so fragrant, she’s got a poodle-cross pup,

You can’t embarrass her.

In her short life she’s never known grief,

Never sought strife, never beggared belief,

She’s a fraught wife, but her husband’s a thief

who likes to harass her.

Come on down, Lisa baby, tell me the truth,

Is this how you saw it, when you were a youth?

Is this what you hoped for, when we were both young,

you and I?

An inanimate life

Under a Simpsons sky.

He’s a chancer, he’s always chasing the deal

But gets no answer, he doesn’t care how you feel,

She was a dancer, but the dream wasn’t real,

That’s how he’d spin it.

As he views it, she’s his cook and his whore,

He’ll abuse it, like he abuses the law,

She can’t defuse it, it’s an unending war,

She can’t win it.

But fess up, Lisa baby, tell me your news,

Is this what you dreamed of, as a schoolgirl in Loos?

Is this what you imagined when we were both free,

you and I?

An accidental life

Under a Simpsons sky.

Not all the skies are Simpsons,

Not all the stories make you laugh,

Some of the skies make you think of the Road Not Taken,

And make you wonder about that other path.

We can’t fix things, we’re always victims of hope,

We play our six-strings, it helps us to cope,

We try to mix things, but simply fashion the rope

to make a noose with.

She’s so forlorn now, but she still doesn’t bend

to the storm now, that’s portending her end,

She stays warm now, and prays for a friend

to hang loose with.

Strike it up, Lisa baby, let out your tears,

Is this what you’ve been leading to, all of these years?

Is this why you left me, is this why there’s no you and I?

A wasted life

Under a Simpsons sky.