FLYING WEST
I hope there's a place, way up in the sky,
Where pilots can go, when they have to die.
A place where a guy could buy a cold beer
For a friend and a comrade whose memory is
dear. A place where no doctor or lawyer could
tread, Nor a managemet-type would e'er be
caught dead! Just a quaint little place, kind of
small, full of smoke, Where they like to sing
loud, and love a good joke! The kind of a place
where a lady could go, And feel safe and
secure by the men she would know.
There MUST be a place where old pilots go, when
Their wings become weary, when their airspeed
gets low; Where the whiskey is old, and the women
are young, And songs about flying and dying
are sung; Where you'd see all the fellows who'd
"flown west" before, And they'd call out your
name, as you came thru the door, Who would buy
you a drink, if your thirst should be bad, And
tell all the others, "He was quite a good lad!"
Then there, thru the mist, you'd spot and old guy
You had not seen for years, tho he taught YOU
to fly, He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to
ear, And say, "Welcome, my son, I'm proud that
you're here! For this is the place where true
flyers come, When the battles are over, and
the wars have been won; We've come here at last,
to be safe and alone From the government
clerk, and the management clone, Politicians and
lawyers, the Feds and the noise, Where all
Hours are Happy, and these good ol' boys Can
relax with a 'cool one', and a well deserved
rest.."
"This is Heaven, my son: You've passed
your last check!"
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