Lieutenant Ormer Locklear scrambles
out of his cockpit, his partner grabs
the stick as Lock swings up onto the wing.
Holy moley, he’s out there dancing
like a bear in slick-soled boots—
he’s hanging by his knees
from the undercarriage, he’s astride
the tail, waving to the crowd,
he’s changing from plane to plane
in mid-air. Hell-in-harness, what an act!
Bill this as a circus, a flying circus
three miles long and a mile high,
Lock with his pals, Skeets and Shorty.
I tell them, turn up in uniform. Women
will go crazy for daredevils
with wings and ribbons on their suits.