A song for Maynard Hill (1926-2011) who flew a model airplane across the Atlantic.
Six inch wings in the kitchen pulling up above the silverware. Little airplane taking the air. How many years in the wood shop with the circuits and the superglue? Now the big time’s coming for you. Will I become immune to the lift and the thrill and the sin of the first flight? And could we go alone to the brink of the air? Down at the fundraiser carwash there’s a scuffle for the Armor-All. Little plane rise over it all. Ride my Chevy beside you: top down, radio, big sky. Little airplane, king of the big time. Have I become immune to the lift and the thrill and the sin of the first flight? And sure I was aware of the risk to be run by the tip of a wing made of tin in a plane’ that could cross a holy… Skimming the lip of the ocean to the wet and windy irish shore: little airplane taking a tailwind. You’re the reason I’m rising in the embers of a tender life: Little airplane.