Blessings on thee, PBY
Staggering through the stormy sky,
Struts and fittings bent and worn,
With all fabric ripped and torn,
Riverts loose and flapping wings,
Leaky hull, 'mongst other things,
Your engines spit and pop like heck,
It's twelve more hours 'til they get checked.
When the airspeed meter climbs,
Past a rate of eighty-nine
The crew's hearts sink into their boots,
As they don Mae Wests and parachutes.
Hull bottom ripped on jagged rocks,
Wings floats strewn upon the docks,
Paint all gone from landing hot,
Rivets popped from full-stall squats.
Control wires slack, and bulkheads bent,
Blisters cracked, their framework rent.
Oft I wonder, when on high,
How it is you still can fly,
For every time I fly with you,
On foggy night or in morning dew,
I pray you will return with me,
And not let us crash into the sea.