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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
comrade
whose memory is dear.
A
place where no doctor
or lawyer could tread,
Nor
a management type
would e're be caught dead!
Just
a quaint little place;
kind of dark, 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 wings get too weary,
and 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,
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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 thru the mist
you'd spot an old guy
You
had not seen in years,
though he'd taught you to fly.
He'd
nod his old head
and grin ear to ear,
And
say, “Welcome my son,
I'm pleased that you're here!”
For
this is the place
where true flyers come
When
the battles are over,
and the wars have been won.
They've
come here at last
to be safe and afar
From
the government clerk
and the management czar,
Politicians
and lawyers,
the feds and the noise,
Where
all hours are happy,
and these good old boys
Can
relax with a cool one,
and a well-deserved rest!
This
is Heaven, my son,
you've passed your last test!
See another poem by this poet at: One in a Million
See this poem and three others by this
poet in this book, Because
I Fly
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