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 can buy a cold beer
For a friend and a comrade, whose memory is dear;
A place where no doctor or lawyer can tread ,
Nor a management type would ere 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 a 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 become heavy, 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 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 there, through the mist, you’d spot an old guy
You had not seen in years, though he 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 alone
From the government clerks and the management clone,
Politicians and lawyers, the Feds and the noise,
Where all hours are happy, and these good ole boys
Can relax with a cool one, and a well deserved rest!
This is heaven, my son. You’ve passed your last test!”
Our beloved friends, our wives, and our sweethearts listed below have passed on since our last reunion
Carmen Fabijan Doris C. Haynes
Our flying buddies listed below will be added to the next Memorial Roster.
Now I have flown where the air’s so thin
Oxygen masks are needed by men.
And I have looped and rolled and soared
And leaned on Mach – and come home bored. Sooooo
Give others-greedy that Icarian stuff,
I’d rather drive the Sikorsky buff
Or woppity-wop in a bird from Bell;
That stiff-wing stuff just doesn’t jel.
No “Contact!…Judy!” you’ll hear from me.
But a chopper-duck dogfight’s a sight to see.
On herding moose I could write a tome;
I’ve even helped the buffalo roam.
Yes, passenger-pilot is a fat occupation,
But I get my kicks with an auto-rotation.
No G-wrung piles will be my ration;
And low freq. rattles end constipation.
Someone said flight is high and fast
But seeing the world is a greater blast.
So let me hover for all I’m worth,
Reach out my hand, and touch the face of earth.