I hope there's a place, way up in the sky
Where Aces High pilots can go when they die.
A place where a guy could buy a cold beer
For a friend or fellow player whose memory is dear.
Just a quaint little place, kind of dark, full of smoke,
Where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke.
There must be a place where old Aces High pilots can go,
When their wings become heavy, when 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 Aces High,
And they'd call out your name, as you flew through the sky.
And there, through the mist, you'd spot an old guy
You had not seen in years, though he'd taught you to fly.
He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear
And say, "Welcome, my friend, I'm proud that you're here!
For this is the place where true flyers come
When the battles are over, and the map has been won.
Where all hours are happy, and these good ol' boys
Can relax with a cool one, and a well deserved rest!
This is Heaven, my friend. You've passed your last test!"
Badboy
