I’m the devil’s own publicist, promoter,
twenty-four sheet billposter.
Hell’s mint! I am prince of pitch,
god of gab for a week of wings.
Call me champion of ballyhoo,
I invent the event. Boldface you.
Once I raced bicycles hell-to-toot,
no money there—but airplanes!
What a cocktail, half a dozen flying machines
fizzing above full grandstands:
seats, fifty cents; box seats, one dollar;
standing room, a quarter; children, ten cents.
Lincoln Beachey, the Boy Aeronaut,
is steering a dirigible,
he’s never seen a plane.
Finger the canvas, I tell him, stroke
the struts, pry apart the engine, oil it.
A flying machine throbs, kicks.
Mount her, gallop into the game.
Grab the stick, wink at farmers
who wish they could fly,
take off with an ear-pounding roar.
Thousands will pay to watch you
wrestle those wings,
yell as you roll, pitch, yaw.
I front so many pilots,
they call me the Champ,
call me the banker
who bags the long green.
My cut is a hell-whooping half.
I tell the time with solid gold, I strut
in a suit and spats. Watch me ballyhoo
from hell to breakfast, watch me spiel
and grind till the last ticket’s torn.