Your aeroplane is pulling out its stops.
Your aeroplane is growling with its props,
pawing the tarmac with its landing gear,
streaming exhaust. That one sortie is here
that you’ve been fearfully anticipating.
12-o’clock high, the Red Baron is waiting
in a holding pattern behind the sun,
his mind as focussed as his Gatling gun,
inviting you there, up to the skies,
you, his one absent precious prize.
He wants to silence your persiflage,
to put your picture on his fuselage.
He wants his mind relieved of you.
He wants his gun to talk to you,
embracing the murderous dialogue.
He doesn’t care that you’re just a dog.