Frequent Flyer

Far above the ground I fly
A giant steel butterfly.
I carve up stratospheric mash
I run on dinosaurs and cash.
“Are you, Sir, a frequent flyer?
Round here there’s no one higher,
The local time is three forty-one
And looks like there is lots of sun.
Return to Dublin, nine ninety-nine
With prices like that, flying’s fine!
Will you fly again perhaps?
Who needs those pesky polar caps?
More champagne, wipe your arse?
You are, after-all in business class.”

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