CURLY:-
The trouble was that she flew like a pig,
Sluggish and unsure,
Always trying to drop her nose.
She never had enough lift
And didn't seem at home in the air.
The boffins started scratching their heads,
But all us flying men knew
She'd been built much too heavy:
Too much steel
And far too many clever gizmos;
No one would admit at first
That we were right.

And, in the hull, a half-a-million cubic feet
Of sweet F.A.,
Wasted space that should
Have held more hydrogen,
And all of the bags
Had a newfangled valve
That leaked gas like hell
Each time she moved.
And if that wasn't problems enough,
Our engines were proving
To be a dead loss.
They were built for hauling railway trains
And not for whizzing
Light propellers around.
We couldn't run 'em
At more than half-speed;
Any faster
And they'd shake themselves to bits.
Our new baby then was badly overweight
And sadly underpowered.

But we weren't too worried yet,
Taking our cue
From Group Captain Breeze,
Big Chief of all of us flying men,
Head of Flight Operations
For both the new ships.
He seemed to be sure
That the Cardington boffins
Could get her right;
And 'Lucky' Breeze was an airship legend,
The hero of a thousand dangerous flights.

Commanded the first ship
To fly the Atlantic in 1919.
Nothing scares Lucky, dare-devil Lucky,
Neck or nothing, easy-going,
Hard drinking Lucky;
He'll see us through...

I have to say though
That the chap didn't look very well to me:
Pasty face and not quite on the ball
And, after lunch,
A pronounced smell of gin.
He liked to take the controls
On the days when he flew with us.
Quite surprised he was so ham-fisted;
Managed to cock-up the mooring
A couple of times.
He was only forty-two,
But his best days as a pilot
Were behind him.

The top brass at the Airship Works
Tried to keep our problems dark.
They talked about minor bugs
And fine tuning;
Had to keep their Masters sweet.
They racked their brains in private;
We kept her flying as best we could,
Tests and trials and demonstrations,
And everyone so enthusiastic:
Flights round the gasworks for VIPs,
Sleek officials trying not to look excited,
Half-cut MPs out on a jolly,
All in love with the Queen of the Skies.

December '29,
She went in for a major refit;
Out come half of the passenger cabins,
The potted palms and the central heating.
Then they loosen the gas cell wiring
To let the bags expand and swell.
"More gas, boys!", cry the Coxswains,
"Get this old girl on her toes..."