It was a Fokker 104,
the colonel had confessed.
His fate was very clear,
and we did not complain
about the fuel used.

He would not do
what was expected by the nation,
a step, out into empty space
was not within the realm
of capabilities.

I'd been his mentor,
his trusted go-between,
that bastard Arnie B.
who, from the stock of
Icelandic imbeciles
had sealed my fate.

It was expected now,
so I, the current chargé d'affaires
stepped in,
honour must be upheld,
no costs too dear.
I took it on, the task
and as I flew I chanted
long and loudly,
I do believe that all of them,
the birds, the bees, and men
heard Aryan melodies
until I met my God,
at a small place
near willow trees,
it's called
the Fatherland.

Herbert Nehrlich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/honour-3/