I want to be Sir Richard Branson,
Or someone just like him.
I want to be blonde,
With my hair shiny and long,
Piercing blue eyes,
Muscular arms and thighs,
And of course
I would have a lilting British accent.
Models would swoon daily
As they saw my face,
For besides me being beautiful
Rumor has it that I’m going into space,
And if you happen to have enough money
I just might find you a place.

Yes, it is true
That he has spaceships filled with rocket fuel,
Crammed with rocket-powered thrust,
Boiling smoke on the launch pad truss,
Imagine the force that will build beneath us,
A sentiment suggesting being sucked into the earth,
And then when you least expect it,
You are suddenly hurled past Perth,
Rising a hundred feet for each one that we drift,
When the pilot hastily takes the grip,
And the rattling almost blows me away.

But the beauty of it is
That Sir Richard’s at the helm,
With a Roy Rogers hat
And a case of film,
As another rocket flies side by side
And chronicles the adventure
Of this civilian space ride,
But he was the hero
And me just a goat
And there was a story here
So I observed and wrote
The amazing story
Of my real life idol,
Caught somewhere in between
The grave and the cradle,
Marinated in brilliance
But clearly crazed,
As the good Sir Richard
Left us all amazed
When he drove his ship
Into outer space.

So listen closely, nautlings
Of sea and sky,
As you commence the days of your future lives
And you decide, if you will sail or if you will fly.
You can accomplish anything that you envision
As long as you’re willing to do the labor,
You can be saint or scientist,
A banker or an artist.
You can fly a plane
Or sail a schooner,
Teach mathematics,
Or fish for tuna.
But I’m an old man
With realities to face,
Such are the origins of my dreams,
To spend the day with Sir Richard
Somewhere in outer space.