In dreams of airplanes I have flown,

The engines are still round.

Radial engines’ throaty roars,

Oh, how I loved that sound.

Memories of cockpit smells,

Invade my restless sleep.

Of engine oil and pilot sweat,

Mementos I still keep.

A turbo jet has none of that,

It screams a high-pitched amp.

Its smell is that of kerosene,

Much like a Boy Scout’s lamp.

Round engines start with much ado,

They rattle, bang, and smoke.

It’s like a jumbled battlefield,

Until they find their stroke.

A turbine’s start is more serene,

The ground crew plugs it in.

Then with a poof all ladylike,

The engine finds its spin.

At takeoff time, the pilot knows,

Round engines will devise.

Excuses they invent each hop,

To avoid the lofty skies.

Magneto check, oil pressure check,

The checklist is the guide.

And when the tower says, “You’re cleared,”

It’s time to take a ride.

Taxi to the center line,

And push the throttle forward,

Release the brakes and feel the plane,

Torque smartly to the portward.

Push right rudder pedal hard,

And let the engine roar.

Stay straight upon the center line,

Into the skies you’ll soar.

A Jet is more obedient,

Its work seems not so dreaded.

And when you push the power on,

It goes right where it’s headed.

Now I have flown jet planes so sleek,

They pass the speed of sound.

But in my restless dreams at night,

The engines are still round.