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I hope there's a place way up in the sky, where old fliers can go on
the day that they die.
A place where a guy can buy a cold beer, for a friend and 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 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 ole' boys.
You can relax with a cold one, maybe deal from a deck, this is Heaven.
Son.....You've
passed your last check!"
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