No stunting's allowed in the Service, Although we @3could@1 stunt if we chose; But @3our@1 pilots' copper-lined nerve is For other requirements than those. We fly when the tempests are blowing, We buck through the fog or the hail, Our stunt is to go—and keep going, We're carrying Uncle Sam's Mail! At midday you'll hear our planes humming And see them, perhaps, in the sky, At midnight our motors are drumming As steadily onward we fly. We whoop over forest and mountain We swoop over river and vale, We've got to be guys you can count on, We're carrying Uncle Sam's Mail. Height records? We fret not about 'em. Speed records? They're not in our line. And yet we move swiftly without 'em, On schedule, rain, snow or shine. The eagle and hawk lag behind us Along our aerial trail, Look up when we're due—you will find us, We're carrying Uncle Sam's Mail! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CINQUAIN: NOVEMBER NIGHT by ADELAIDE CRAPSEY EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: THE BEGINNER by RUDYARD KIPLING THE SIFTING OF PETER by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ULTIMA THULE: NIGHT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW MEMORIAL TO D.C.: 5. ELEGY by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY AT FREDERICKSBURG [DECEMBER 13, 1862] by JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 11 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |