an airman's heaven
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an airman's heaven
A good friend has just sent me this and I thought others may like to share it ?
I wasn't sure where to put it but I guess this is as good as anywhere ?
I wasn't sure where to put it but I guess this is as good as anywhere ?
CHOX ON
I hope there's a place way up in the sky,
Where aircrew can go, when they have to die -
A place where a guy can buy a cold beer,
For a friend or 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 place where a lady can go,
And feel safe and protected by the men that she'd know.
There MUST be a place where old aircrew go,
Where their paining is finished and their airspeed is low,
Where the whisky is old and the women are young,
And songs about flying and dying are sung.
Where you'd see all the fellows you'd flown with before
And they'd call out your name as you came through the door,
Who'd buy you a drink if your thirst should be bad
And relate to the others, "He's a jolly good lad".
And then through the mist, you'd spot an old guy,
You'd not seen in years, though he taught you to fly.
He'd nod his head and grin ear-to-ear,
And say, "Welcome son, I'm pleased that you're here.
For this is the place where true flyers come,
When their journey is over and the battle's been won.
They come here at last, to be safe and alone,
From the government clerk and the management clone,
Politicians and lawers, the cops 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">
Where aircrew can go, when they have to die -
A place where a guy can buy a cold beer,
For a friend or 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 place where a lady can go,
And feel safe and protected by the men that she'd know.
There MUST be a place where old aircrew go,
Where their paining is finished and their airspeed is low,
Where the whisky is old and the women are young,
And songs about flying and dying are sung.
Where you'd see all the fellows you'd flown with before
And they'd call out your name as you came through the door,
Who'd buy you a drink if your thirst should be bad
And relate to the others, "He's a jolly good lad".
And then through the mist, you'd spot an old guy,
You'd not seen in years, though he taught you to fly.
He'd nod his head and grin ear-to-ear,
And say, "Welcome son, I'm pleased that you're here.
For this is the place where true flyers come,
When their journey is over and the battle's been won.
They come here at last, to be safe and alone,
From the government clerk and the management clone,
Politicians and lawers, the cops 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">
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This is a poem originally written by Captain Michael J Larkin of TWA called 'Flying West.' It seems a pity that someone should want to change that. Although the words are the same.
So 'Flying West' is what the title will always be.
I used it in a eulogy to a wonderful man known as 'Dr Syn,' a great friend of PPRuNe and my best mate, who died in March 2004.
So 'Flying West' is what the title will always be.
I used it in a eulogy to a wonderful man known as 'Dr Syn,' a great friend of PPRuNe and my best mate, who died in March 2004.
