The Pilot

Someday we will know, where the pilots go
When their work on earth is through.
Where the air is clean, and the engines gleam,
And the skies are always blue.
They have flown alone, with the engine's moan,
As they sweat the great beyond,
And they take delight, at the awesome sight
of the world spread far and yon.
Yet not alone, for above the moan, when the earth is
out of sight,
As they make their stand, He takes their hand,
and guides them through the night.
How near to God are these men of sod,
Who step near death's last door?
Oh, these men are real, not made of steel,
But He knows who goes before,
And how they live, and love and are beloved,
But their love is most for air.
And with death about, they will still fly out,
And leave their troubles there.
He knows these things, of men with wings,
And He knows they are surely true.
And He will give a hand, to such a man
'Cause He's a pilot too.

by "Leo Hymas"

The Copilot

I am the copilot. I sit on the right.
It's up to me to be quick and bright;
I never talk back for I have regrets,
But I have to remember what the Captain forgets.
I make out the Flight Plan and study the weather,
Pull up the gear, stand by to feather;
Make out the mail forms and do the reporting,
And fly the old crate while the Captain is courting.
I take the readings, adjust the power,
Put on the heaters when we're in a shower;
Tell him where we are on the darkest night,
And do all the bookwork without any light.
I call for my Captain and buy him cokes;
I always laugh at his corny jokes,
And once in awhile when his landings are rusty
I always come through with, "By gosh it's gusty!"
All in all I'm a general stooge,
As I sit on the right of the man I call "Scrooge";
I guess you think that is past understanding,
But maybe some day he will give me a landing.

by "Keith Murray"