My Uncle Irby had never flown
In a plane or any other way,

He was born over ninety years ago,
On a nineteenth century day,

They got him aboard the airliner
Without fuss because he didn't know

How high they were going to fly, I think,
He thought they would be very low,

At 30,000 feet, 600 MPH
He looked out and to his surprise,

He felt he was hardly moving at all,
And couldn't believe his eyes,

The greenery creeping by beneath him
Was nearly six miles below,

But Irby couldn't resist asking,
"Why are we going so slow?"

by D. Edgar Murray