*I hope there's a place, way up in the sky
For old aviators, when they say good bye!
A place where a fella’ can get a chilled beer
‘Chug-a-lug’ for a mate, whose memory was dear
A place where no doctor or lawyer can be a threat
Just an aircrew rest room, reserved for the very best.
A quaint little bar, kinda’ dark and full of smoke
Where they sing loud, and guffaw at a good joke
The kind of place where a lady could bravely go
Feel safe amongst gentlemen she would know
There must be a place where thoughts fly like an arrow
When the sortie is over, for landing airspeed gets low.
Where the whiskey is old, great are the ***** and ***
The songs are about group combat and one versus one,
Where you'd meet all fellows who'd flown the coop before
They'd call out your name, welcoming you through the door
Who would buy you a drink should your throat be parched
And tell others, "Here comes a new lad, lookie ye! all starched!"
Then through the mist, you'd spot a grand old guy
The one missed for years, he taught you how to fly
He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear,
Saying, "Welcome, my son, I'm pleased that you're here
I forgive you; you botched up the last landing
But you led a life that was by far, outstanding”.
"Guys, he has come here to let his spirits fly and not groan
Skip the earthlings who lived lives like miserable clones
Politicians, lawyers, the Feds, the guys with little poise
Here, where it is ‘happy hours’ for our good ol' boys
Pass on that glass of rye, for he deserves a well earned rest
Cheers! This is ‘Heaven, my son’; this is your future nest!"*
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 5:45 AM UTC
*I hope there's a place, way up in the sky
For old aviators, when they say good bye!
A place where a fella’ can get a chilled beer
‘Chug-a-lug’ for a mate, whose memory was dear
A place where no doctor or lawyer can be a threat
Just an aircrew rest room, reserved for the very best.
A quaint little bar, kinda’ dark and full of smoke
Where they sing loud, and guffaw at a good joke
The kind of place where a lady could bravely go
Feel safe amongst gentlemen she would know
There must be a place where thoughts fly like an arrow
When the sortie is over, for landing airspeed gets low.
Where the whiskey is old, great are the ***** and ***
The songs are about group combat and one versus one,
Where you'd meet all fellows who'd flown the coop before
They'd call out your name, welcoming you through the door
Who would buy you a drink should your throat be parched
And tell others, "Here comes a new lad, lookie ye! all starched!"
Then through the mist, you'd spot a grand old guy
The one missed for years, he taught you how to fly
He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear,
Saying, "Welcome, my son, I'm pleased that you're here
I forgive you; you botched up the last landing
But you led a life that was by far, outstanding”.
"Guys, he has come here to let his spirits fly and not groan
Skip the earthlings who lived lives like miserable clones
Politicians, lawyers, the Feds, the guys with little poise
Here, where it is ‘happy hours’ for our good ol' boys
Pass on that glass of rye, for he deserves a well earned rest
Cheers! This is ‘Heaven, my son’; this is your future nest!"*
Dedicated to some fine aviator friends, somewhere upstairs, playing the harp.
A tribute to those who perished
