Ah, Prediction

Predilection, more like it.
Intuition with a tush push.
Aviation with an arrogant 
sense that its planes would
certainly fly on any given planet. 

Wait wait, don't gravity.
Car stalks reed the marshes
and play violins after they
tore the organic material
out of their trumpet boreholes. 

It's an oil magnate incarnate!
A rocky feller, an olden yeller,
town buyer crying for spying
to prove to a miserable county
that patriotism knows its area code.