Last Check Ride

I hope there's a place way up high in the sky,
Where old fliers can go on the day that they die.
A place where a guy can get a cold beer,
For all his old comrades whose memory is dear.
A place where no doctor or lawyer can tread,
And an FAA type would not be caught dead.

Just a quaint little place, full of gallant airmen,

Whose war stories are relished, again and again.

Where the drinks are all free and you’ll never go broke,

And they like to sing loud and they love a good joke.
There must be a place where the old flyers go,
When their flying is done 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.
They would bring you a drink, if your thirst should be bad,
And relate to the rest, "He was quite a good lad."

And then through the mist you'd spot an old guy,
You had not seen in years ¯ since he taught you to fly.
He'd nod his grey head, and grin ear to ear,
And say, "Welcome, old buddy, I'm glad that you're here."
For this is the place where true flyers come,
When their journey is over, their war has been won.

They've come here at last to be safe and with friends,
A place to hang out when their flight career ends.
Away from the hustle and bustle and noise,
Where everyone’s happy, and they're all good ol' boys.
You can sip on a cold one, relax on the deck,
This is Heaven old buddy....You've passed your last check!"