Epicure a magic name

Epicure a magic name

A five verse poem recording the end of 517 Squadron's meteorological flights.

One typewritten sheet on an album page

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PWardEM16010037

Epicure, a magic name,
You'll never get the gen again
For 517's dead and gone,
In truth to tell you'v[character deleted]e had it John.
You'll have to do your forecasts now
Without the griff from aircraft's prow,
Unless St. Eval take it over
And do the trip from Cornwall's clover.
But we were bred on Brawdy's runways
Tougher far than Devon's sunways;
Cloud and rain our foster mothers
Yet our sorties out did others.
Morn [sic] ye, then for 517
Know it [word deleted] as a Met man's heaven;
Others may try to do the trick
But none will ever be as slick.
We wish you luck without our aid
Better forecasts may be made
Without it-
But I doubt it.

R. Butler World copyright