This week an aeroplane pasenger complained of the length of time taken (5 1/2 days) in making the trip from Singapore to Perth by air.
In what are called "the good old days" -- The spacious days of sail -- Our grand-dads went the old seaways, Or sent their goods or mail, In some stout, oaken, wind-borne ship From English shores to here, And every often did the trip In less than half a year. Then they would pen a letter Home In which they told the tale Of how thier ship tore thro' the foam before the driving gale. "A marvel," they would write, "indeed, To see our vessel race, Soon must come limits to the speed At which man conquers space." Today, we step into a 'plane Sit down, and say, "Make haste. London this week and back again, Man has not time to waste." At Croydon field we note the time. "Tut, tut!" we ask, irate, "Has this old bus got past her prime? Why, man, we're two hours late!" Tomorrow, thro' the stratosphere We're due to whizz, no doubt, When relativity is here, And slowcoach Time knocked out. Still we'll complain: "Are modern ways At last of speed bereft? We should have reached our goal two days, At least, before we left."
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2003|