Old poem
Aviators' Heaven
I hope there's a place way up in the sky, where old flyers can go on the day they 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 an FAA 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 flyers go, when their flying is finished, 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 through the door.
Who would buy you a drink, if your thirst should be bad, and relate to others, "He was quite a good lad".
And then 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 the true flyers come, when their journey is over, and their war has been won.
They'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 they're all good ol' boys.
You can relax with a cold one, maybe deal from a deck, this is heaven my son..... You've passed your last check!"