High-Flying Birds of a Feather

The TSA, which pats us down
While we try hard to make our plane
Thinks maybe we’re less apt to frown
If more security’s made sane
And thus suggests for those we trust
A special line, which might be just.

But only if the unjust need
To stand in lines for special flights,
Like those with babies that proceed
To wail until your plane alights.
As bad? Meowing, barking pets.
Why aren’t they staying at the vet’s?

Or those who file all ten nails
Which sets surrounding teeth on edge,
Or awkward-managing travails
When, left and right, goliaths wedge
Not into just their seats but yours,
Obnoxious, diet-shirking boors!

And what about the guy instead
Of checking his enormous bag,
Prefers a front row’s overhead
Although uneasy minutes drag
While fellow boarders wait in line
And stewards, not the engines, whine.

Reclining seats bring out the worst—
Both yours as well as that in front.
How many times have I been cursed
When those at my back felt the brunt
Of me who wanted just to snooze.
Ahead I warn, Don’t spill my booze!