Oh, he swings through Diablo as cool as the breeze;
that daring young drafter treats supports like trapeze!
One hand on an S-6, legs dangling free,
sketching “as-builts” to a count of three.
All the welders admire his courage;
he does things Batman wouldn’t dare.
His wages would feign choke a cobra,
but he risks his neck high in the air!
Now he’s in containment - seventy feet high -
handspringing on one-inch conduits ... oh, my!
He won’t use a ladder, a scaffold, or belt;
if DYING he won’t call for help!
He’s mad! He’s insane! He’s crazy!
He laughs at us safe on the floor!
Missing a grab won’t disturb him;
injuries make him lust for more!
Working ten hours a day, sleeping three hours a night;
the rest of his time’s spent day-dreaming of flight.
He’s a working-man artist, the fool’s zany peer:
glorious, exuberant and weird!
Claustrophobia? Ha! It inspires him!
One foot tall spaces yield just like that!
The hairs on his skin wriggle strong with his will;
thus he crawls lying flat on his back!
Sadly but truly, living can’t last;
people who live madly die very fast.
He once was a drafter, now he’s a god ...
in a graveyard with a shattered bod!