In skies of azure, Pegleg soared,
A pilot with a wooden leg, quite flawed.
His compass spun like a tipsy top,
And his map was scribbled, a tangled knot.
He’d steer left when right was the way,
And loop-de-loop through clouds all day.
His co-pilot, a parrot named Squawk,
Would squawk in panic, feathers awry.
“Land this crate!” the passengers cried,
As Pegleg grinned, his eye patch wide.
He’d barrel roll, then dive and swoop,
His hat askew, his courage in a loop.
Through thunderstorms and starry nights,
Pegleg weaved his wild flights.
His landing gear? A creaky chair,
And his runway? Any patch of air.
Yet somehow, Pegleg survived each trip,
His wooden leg tapping a jaunty skip.
For in the chaos of skies and strife,
He found freedom—a pirate’s life.
So here’s to Pegleg, the terrible flyer,
His wings of folly reaching higher.
May he forever roam the azure blue,
A legend aloft, forever askew.