Flying West

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.