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Copyright: Fred Robel, and Fritz365 2010-2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog's author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Fred Robel and Fritz365 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Monday, March 9, 2015

Welcome to Boneyard Town

There's a place where the birds all come to rest
Where their turbines spool down
Hydraulics bleed out
Gust locks are put on the flight controls
And the tires get chocked
When the pilots skip out of town

In this fabled place
The tails are lined up as far as you can see
This row is Boeings
And over here a long line of Lockheeds
Yonder is a pair of Convairs enjoying retirement
All mostly complete
Only missing the odd accouterment

I've got a few Douglas' left near the entrance
People like to buy them for anvils
Since they were overbuilt when new
And use has only tempered them to be harder
Some guy in Hollywood hammers out swords for the movies
Upon the back of a DC-8
While a smith in Kentucky fires horseshoes atop a DC-6
Whose propellers provide air for his furnace
And provides storage for spare steel inside of it's cargo pits

A stack of Merlin V-12's are in that back barn
I keep them out of sight and safe from harm
They live inside of their Rolls-Royce shipping crates
Covered in cosmoline
Which the rats say tastes great
No real use for them anymore
Made as they were to win an old war
Though the racers and restorers knock on my door
Begging to buy them till I tell them the score

For there is no price upon anything here
And the only way you'll walk out with whatever you hold dear
Is by answering twelve questions and staring me in the eye
Convincing me in no uncertain terms that you truly understand the why
Of the men and women who sell their souls daily just to make old things fly