We say "Adios Espana"
From our aeroplane
On the runway
I gaze through the windowpane
And you complain
That I always get the window seat
As we accelerate you profane
Under the strain
I whisper "there are kids nearby"
You spit that I am a pain
And that I should refrain
From breathing
Instead I try to entertain
And attempt to explain
The development of Whittle's jet engine
You quickly obtain
A bag to contain
Your imaginary vomit
I try to ascertain
If you plan to maintain
This level of hostility towards me
You say you must have been insane
To holiday with such an idiot
But I think you enjoyed it
In the main