I hope there's a place, way up in the sky.
Where pilots can go, when they have to die.
A place where a chap can have a cold beer.
With a friend or a comrade whose memory is clear.
A place with good graces, no hook or slice.
While all landings are smooth and you never bounce twice.
Just a quaint little bar for a chat and a smoke.
Where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke.
The kind of a place where a lady could go.
Feel safe and protected by the men she would know.
There must be a place where old pilots go.
Where their plans are all finished and their airspeed gets 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.
Who would call you your name, as you come through the door.
Who would buy you a drink, if your thirst should be bad.
And say to the others, "He was quite a good lad!"
And then, through the crowd, you'd spot an old guy.
You had not seen in years, though he'd taught you to fly.
He'd nod his wise head, and grin ear to ear.
And say, "Welcome, my Son I'm pleased you are here!"
For this is the place where true flyers come.
When their journey is over, and their life is all done.
They come here at last so far up above.
To be close to their pals and to those whom they love.
Where all hours are happy and old boys can rest.
This is heaven my son, you have passed your last test.
A wee bit sad, but happy too.....