Fantasy flyers let not the Earth restrain.
Body not bound by mortal main,
nor tracks of train, for they are free.
To fly on silver heels,
like black-and-white movie reels,
in a not quite sense of reality.
To fly in angels’ white things,
on the web of gossamer wings,
we believe these creatures to be.
To fly on carpets of gold,
like the sojourn sultans of old,
o’re the sands of the desert's sea.
To fly in liquid bubbles of soap,
through the air without hope,
that a poke will pop our glee.
Over the rainbow we go,
neither too fast or too slow,
to make sure that all can see.
That we are fantasy flyers,
have never been liars,
because all can fly in poetry.