Song of a Pilot

In case my aged friend the wind
Should come up sidling slyly
From behind you,
Asking archly what has become
Of his lasooer, mention
That I saw him
And saw his cirrus mane
Bristling stratospheric,
That I heard him
Hoof-panic whine and shy
At scenting my blood burning,
But I let him
Aerodynamically
Slip through my fingers.