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Flying Machine

I soar above the earth
In my tiny flying machine.
Made of gas and metal
And a heck of a lot of dreams.

Can this be so? Can this be real?
As we fly up in the sky?
Abe Lincoln never would have seen this.
Why, oh, why, do I?

Am I a privileged member
Of a world so advanced?
Am I a welcome member
Who is given a wondrous chance?

I look down and I look up,
A different world I see.
How do we stay up here?
My flying machine and me?


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