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First class flight to Melbourne, Aus.,
Something to get used to—
Learn
to like the caviar,
The lobster, and the goose, too.
There is no Qantas stewardess;
Attendants all are men.
They speak in accents credible,
Though at times beyond my ken.
They add an air of gravity
And obsequi´ousness,
And make it clear that more is more,
And more is never less.
I've been served dinner, breakfast, too,
And ate at least two meals before.
Is this one day, or maybe two?
Five meals a day, or four?
My seat, not like my Lazy Boy,
Adjusts with motors quiet.
It lets me rest in calm repose
And contemplate my ruined diet.
I can walk about the cabin;
There’s no need to bend or duck.
There’s more than ample elbow room
And aisles wide as a truck.
The passengers who’re near to me
Do not seem rich or fat,
They are not wearing fancy clothes,
No Dior dress, and no cravat.
They look, however, comfortable
In this, the pamp’ring place,
And seem, moreover, quite content
To be the favored race.
I guess there’re blokes in tourist,
But they’re nowhere to be seen.
Do they get chocolates, choice of wines,
Headphones, and private TV screen?
Alas, my lot—the normal one—
Is a narrow seat in steerage.
I'll not fly first class again,
Barring elevation to the peerage.
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