I hope theres a place, way up in the sky, Where pilots can go, when they have to die- A place where a guy can go and buy a cold beer For a friend and comrade, whose memory is dear; A place where no doctor or lawyer can tread, Nor management type would ere be caught dead; Just a quaint little place, kinda dark and full of smoke, Where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke; The kind of place where a lady could go And feel safe and protected, by the men she would know. There must be a place where old pilots go, When their paining is finished, and their airspeed gets low, Where the whiskey is old, and the women are young, And the songs about flying and dying are sung, Where youd see all the fellows whod flown west before. And theyd call out your name, as you came through the door; Who would buy you a drink if your thirst should be bad, And relate to the others, He was quite a good lad! And then through the mist, youd spot an old guy You had not seen for years, though he taught you how to fly. Hed nod his old head, and grin ear to ear, And say, Welcome, my son, Im pleased that youre here. For this is the place where true flyers come, When the journey is over, and the war has been won Theyve come here to at last to be safe and alone From the government clerk and the management clone, Politicians and lawyers, the Feds and the noise Where the hours are happy, and these good olboys Can relax with a cool one, and a well-deserved rest; This is Heaven, my son -- youve passed your last test!
Posted on: Sat, 29 Mar 2014 16:19:22 +0000
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