Three songs about aircraft and death

Three songs about aircraft and death

A poor aviator lay dying: A pilot died in an accident in the summer. He contemplates his dismembered body and the parts of his machine in a humorous way.

Here's to the next man that dies: The author imagines his own death. He said he hoped that everyone wouldn't be too sad and restates his love for flying.

Just an 84 Blenheim: The author express his love for his 84 Squadron Blenheim. The aircraft was deeply loved and likened to fashionable girl, even though it’s no longer been used.

One typewritten sheet

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SMilsonGW937875v20006

[missing letter] poor aviator lay dying,
At the end of a summers day
His comrades had gathered about him
To carry his fragments away.
The engine was piled on his wishbone,
The Browning[deleted]s[/deleted] was wraped [sic] round his head
A sparkplug stood out of each elbow
T’was plain that he’d shortly be dead.

He spat out a ball & a tracer
As he stired [sic] in the sump where he lay
To his wondering comrades about him
These last dying words he did say:

Take the manifold out of my larynx
Take the butterfly valve [deleted] out of [/deleted] from my kneck [sic]
Remove from my liver the camshaft
There’s a lot of good[deleted]s[/deleted] parts in this wreck.
Take the piston rings out of my stomach
And the cylinder out of my brain
From the small of my back take the crankshaft
And assemble the engine again.

To the Court of Enquiry assemble
Explain to them just how I died,
T’was a flat spin that closely resembled
The minimum angle of glide.
I’ll be riding the clouds in the morning
With no Bristol’s before me to cuss
So shake the lead from your feet boys
There’s another lad meeting this bus.

Who minds to the dust returning
Who shrinks from that safe shore
When that high & lofty yearning
The soul shall be no more.

So stand by your glasses steady
Prepare for a death in the skies
Here’s a toast to the dead already
And here’s to the next man that dies.

Cut off[deleted]f[/deleted] from the land that bore us
In a world of our own ‘bove the skies
The good have all gone before us
There’s only the dead left to die.

[break]

Just an ‘84’ Blenheim, with old fashioned wings,
And the fuselage tattered and torn,
Just two old fashioned engines all tied up with string,
And the nose like the waves of the shore.

For she ain’t got no petrol and no castor oil,
Still there’s something about her divine,
For she’s all safe and sound ‘cause she can’t leave the ground
That ‘84’ Blenheim of mine.