O h, wicked tattle-tale of this modern jet age,
You negative, positive, monstrous gauge
You have placed we pilots in straits quite dire
Since you've stooped to wearing that locking wire.
Yes, we pilots of Air Div, once aggressive and keen
(Before you rated a D--14),
Ordinarily, don't care much for dials and clocks,
But place you, G-- Meter, in a class with the pox.
To-day's fighter pilot, flying high -- level 'tac.
Discovers it's easy, to put up a black.
He encounters a section, he scissors and flicks,
You're past the red line, but to you it's mox nix.
Fighting most bravely, he can't even sneeze,
For one litfie twitch can produce multi G's.
Doing aerial battle, and sorely taxed,
With one eye on you he gets thoroughly waxed.
His heart heavy on landing, his flare out is late,
And you, gentle instrument, case up to plus eight.
Watch him sign in, so completely depressed,
Cause your needle announces, the kite's overstressed.
The OC informs him, it's Trenton for sure.
That night at the bar, our boy's on the door.
And so, my old nemesis, won't you please think
Of all the young pilots you're driving to drink.
We're only human, not mechanical like you,
And we're bound to commit the odd error or two.
So slow down your needles, or raise your red lines,
Or we'll all be back digging those Trenton Salt Mines!
Submitted by an anonymous F86-4 (F) Wing pilot.