The Queen of the Skies retired,
Long live our runway king;
Her assignation had three names,
It’s best not to question pretence.
Eulogies for a fuselage,
Front pages in the press,
But forestries are macadam
And all the workers left.
Newsreaders are enthusing,
A partisan casting and bribe,
Like praising skills of a killer,
Some words as sharp as knives.
They’ll read from flooded desks,
Drenched laptops and manilla files,
By sinking sails and tillers,
About my drowning bride.
