THE BALLAD OF FLYING JOHN
BY FLYING JOHN
Who is Flying John you ask? Just a poet, too shy for fame.
And how does it come to pass you say, that a poet chose such a name?
Well there's a tale to tell, behind it all, if you'd really like to know.
The story takes place in Contwig, back in Germany, long ago.
We went there once, to visit friends, good friends so very dear.
The finest people, a person could know, so warm and full of cheer.
There was Oscar and Imgard, Helmut their son, and Ellen their daughter, how they loved to have fun.
Then daughter Cordula, so sweet and so fair, and Thomas of course, who flew with me there.
I can't forget Marco, Egon and Crystel, nor pert little Michi, as sharp as a pistol.
No better time shown, could anyone claim. In fact it was Helmut, who gave me my name.
For on Ellen's birthday, a party began, up at the little house, high on the land.
The brandy was excellent, and the beer was so good, in fact I must say, I drank more then I should.
The food was delicious, the talk a delight, I was sad when it ended, as we left for the night.
But the party was over, so we walked down the hill, my footing not certain, from drinking my fill.
In the darkness it came, as expected of course, I took to the air, as my feet became crossed.
Thomas grabbed for my shoulders, upon seeing my plight, but alas, too late, so he joined me flight.
So at ten feet or more, in the air we did soar, and waved as we passed overhead.
Helmut looked to the sky, and saw us sail by, then calmly my good friend said.
"What is this flying by, so low in the sky, so fast that soon it is gone? Not a plane nor a bird could travel this way, it can only be Flying John."
So we landed with glee, good Thomas and me, with a laugh and a hearty sigh.
Helmut gave us a hand, when we rose up to stand, and smiled with a wink of his eye.
"My good friend, John, I never knew, that a man is able to fly." "It's something I'm working on, Helmut my friend, and the brandy allows me to try."
The good fun we had, the beautiful peace, the parties that never end.
When I miss them now, I write you see, and it brings me back there again.
So it's Flying John that writes these things. I thought you'd like to know.
That they're written with friends, back in Contwig you see, with memories of long ago. - -