Help Please
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Location: Tharg
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Help Please
Folks,
my dad passed away last sun. He used to peruse these pages (ex army) and was taken with a poem that referred to a bar where ladies were welcome and I think the concluding line goes along the lines of "pull up a pew my son, you're welcome here.
He wanted it reading at his funeral. Would any one be able to post a copy please?
BP
my dad passed away last sun. He used to peruse these pages (ex army) and was taken with a poem that referred to a bar where ladies were welcome and I think the concluding line goes along the lines of "pull up a pew my son, you're welcome here.
He wanted it reading at his funeral. Would any one be able to post a copy please?
BP
Try `skygod.com`; `Flying West`,by Capt.M J Larkin,ex-TWA. seems close.
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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 go and buy a cold beer
For a friend and comrade, whose memory is dear;
A place where no doctor or lawyer can tread,
Nor management type would ere be caught dead;
Just a quaint little place, kinda dark and full of smoke,
Where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke;
The kind of 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 paining is finished, and their airspeed gets low,
Where the whiskey is old, and the women are young,
And the 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 then through the mist, you'd spot an old guy
You had not seen for years, though he taught you how 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 journey is over, and the war has been won
"They've come here to at last to be safe and alone
From the government clerk and the management clone,
"Politicians and lawyers, the Feds and the noise
Where the hours are happy, and these good ol'boys
"Can relax with a cool one, and a well-deserved rest;
"This is Heaven, my son -- you've passed your last test!"
Author: Capt. Michael J. Larkin
Dedicated to: Capt. E. Hamilton Lee
Where pilots can go, when they have to die-
A place where a guy can go and buy a cold beer
For a friend and comrade, whose memory is dear;
A place where no doctor or lawyer can tread,
Nor management type would ere be caught dead;
Just a quaint little place, kinda dark and full of smoke,
Where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke;
The kind of 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 paining is finished, and their airspeed gets low,
Where the whiskey is old, and the women are young,
And the 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 then through the mist, you'd spot an old guy
You had not seen for years, though he taught you how 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 journey is over, and the war has been won
"They've come here to at last to be safe and alone
From the government clerk and the management clone,
"Politicians and lawyers, the Feds and the noise
Where the hours are happy, and these good ol'boys
"Can relax with a cool one, and a well-deserved rest;
"This is Heaven, my son -- you've passed your last test!"
Author: Capt. Michael J. Larkin
Dedicated to: Capt. E. Hamilton Lee
Join Date: Oct 2000
Location: Retired to Bisley from the small African nation
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At the risk of being offensive to the author, but remembering that if you are going to read this aloud it needs to scan perfectly:
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 management type would ere be caught dead;
Just a quaint little place, dark and hinting 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 men she would know.
There must be a place where old pilots go,
When their planning is finished, and their airspeed gets low,
Where the whiskey is old, and the women are young,
And the 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 then through the mist, you'd spot an old guy
You had not seen for 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 the journey is over, and the 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 the hours are all happy, and these good ol'boys
"Can relax with a cool one, and a well-deserved rest;
"This is Heaven, my son -- you've passed your last test!"
You might also try "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" by Richard Bach, for some appropriate prose.
Whatever you choose, remember your father as he deserves to be remembered. We all only live once.
yours
Sven
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 management type would ere be caught dead;
Just a quaint little place, dark and hinting 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 men she would know.
There must be a place where old pilots go,
When their planning is finished, and their airspeed gets low,
Where the whiskey is old, and the women are young,
And the 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 then through the mist, you'd spot an old guy
You had not seen for 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 the journey is over, and the 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 the hours are all happy, and these good ol'boys
"Can relax with a cool one, and a well-deserved rest;
"This is Heaven, my son -- you've passed your last test!"
You might also try "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" by Richard Bach, for some appropriate prose.
Whatever you choose, remember your father as he deserves to be remembered. We all only live once.
yours
Sven
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I know that its not Remembrance Day for a few weeks, and its nearly off thread, but this one always got to me.....
Let them in Peter, they are very tired;
Give them the couches where the Angels sleep.
Let them wake whole again to new dawns fired
With sun, not war. And may their peace be deep
Remember where the broken bodies lie.........
And give them things they like. Let them make noise.
God knows how young they were to have to die!
Give swing bands, not harps, to those our boys.
Let them love, Peter - they have had no time -
Girls sweet as meadow wind, with flowering hair.
They should have trees and bird song, hills to climb -
The taste of summer in a ripened pear.
Tell them how they are all missed. Say not to fear;
It's going to be all right with us down here.
Give them the couches where the Angels sleep.
Let them wake whole again to new dawns fired
With sun, not war. And may their peace be deep
Remember where the broken bodies lie.........
And give them things they like. Let them make noise.
God knows how young they were to have to die!
Give swing bands, not harps, to those our boys.
Let them love, Peter - they have had no time -
Girls sweet as meadow wind, with flowering hair.
They should have trees and bird song, hills to climb -
The taste of summer in a ripened pear.
Tell them how they are all missed. Say not to fear;
It's going to be all right with us down here.
Anonymous
(written in POW camp Marlag 1, Germany 1944)
(written in POW camp Marlag 1, Germany 1944)
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BP
Have you tried asking this question over on ARRSE? I would suggest starting in the 'old n bold' and the forum dedicated to his 'particular Arm' (RE, Inf, AAC etc)
Condolences on your loss as well, and I hope you find what your looking for.
Have you tried asking this question over on ARRSE? I would suggest starting in the 'old n bold' and the forum dedicated to his 'particular Arm' (RE, Inf, AAC etc)
Condolences on your loss as well, and I hope you find what your looking for.
