This Dwindling Earth

In what are called "the good old days" --
   The spacious days of sail --
Our grand-dads went the old seaways,
   Or sent their goods or mail,
In some stout, oaken, wind-borne ship
   From English shores to here,
And every often did the trip
  In less than half a year.

Then they would pen a letter Home
   In which they told the tale
Of how thier ship tore thro' the foam
   before the driving gale.
"A marvel," they would write, "indeed,
   To see our vessel race,
Soon must come limits to the speed
   At which man conquers space."

Today, we step into a 'plane
   Sit down, and say, "Make haste.
London this week and back again,
   Man has not time to waste."
At Croydon field we note the time.
   "Tut, tut!" we ask, irate,
"Has this old bus got past her prime?
   Why, man, we're two hours late!"

Tomorrow, thro' the stratosphere
   We're due to whizz, no doubt,
When relativity is here,
   And slowcoach Time knocked out.
Still we'll complain: "Are modern ways
   At last of speed bereft?
We should have reached our goal two days,
   At least, before we left."