The ever dreaded CASA, scourge of pilots everywhere,
with toxic mix of lawyers and enforcers, they would scare
the roughest, toughest top-gun – he really would have cursed –
but when they took on Santa, then they really did their worst.
As Santa’s sleigh touched down to ground, upon the Christmas eve,
the first “good” children waiting near, their presents to receive,
two CASA men strode to the side of Santa’s flying sled,
and Santa’s blood ran hot and cold. “We’d like a word” they said.
“Your pilot’s license, please!” but Santa pulled out from his coat
a document that had them bluffed, it really got their goat,
it looked official, stamped and bound, what really stirred their gall,
t’was written all in Elvish, which they couldn’t read at all.
They followed with “your medical? Too old to fly, I hear!”
Another Elvish document, t’was dated just this year.
They checked his maps for currency, his sled was well maintained,
they couldn’t fault a thing, because he’d really been well-trained.
“You have six reindeer engines, and you know them all by name.
Your vet reports confirm the fact that they are well maintained,
And yet if one should fail you, it would make your sled unbalanced
a circumstance in which I feel your skills would be quite challenged.
“So now we’ll do a flight test”, they declared, “we want it all,
a take-off, climb, a turn or two, recover from a stall,
a circuit and a landing,” “Climb aboard”, said Santa Claus
“and make yourself quite comfortable, the right hand seat is yours!”
But when their man took up his place, poor Santa was quite shocked.
Across his knees a shotgun lay – t’was loaded, closed and cocked.
“What? Why on earth?” he blurted. CASA man – “here in Australia
“I need to test your take-off when you have an engine failure!”