A poem: not by me (Which means you might actually want to read it!)

I leave tomorrow in the AM for North Dakota. I’m flying standby courtesy of my uncle! He works for an airline, so he gets these buddy passes that allow his closest and dearest relatives (hee hee) to fly very affordably, as long as there’s an open seat. He recently assisted his niece on the other side in going to Spain. In honor of this she composed this most excellent poem.

May I present, for your reading pleasure:

Ode to the Buddy Pass

By S. Carlson (that’s a pretty common name, so I don’t feel like I am subjecting her to any weird stalkers, even though I’m sure there will be many after this poem hits the web)

 

O, buddy pass, my loyal pal,

Most faithful of all friends–

When I’m with you, my wallet smiles;

On you my trip depends.

Perhaps a time or two you thought,

“Today I shall just see

If she’ll survive a bump or two

Or maybe even three–”

But, Buddy Pass, of this I’m sure:

You do not smile with glee

When all those flights have come and gone

And left behind just me.

Nor do I think that you find joy,

When you choose me a seat

Not by the handsome Welsh man, no–

By the one who smells like feet!

You are not amply joyous

If I sleep on airport floor–

Or eat nutritious supper straight

From the vending machine door.

You don’t delight in failed plans,

But surely you do know

that inconvenience means adventure–

Ol’ Chesterson says so.

You help me build my character,

You help to save me money.

You give me seats in Business Class–

O, Buddy Pass, my honey!

Today, for you, I sing this sone

Of love and loyalty:

You are my dear,

You are the only Delta pass for me!