25 AUG 2001
Charlie Block
23 May 2004
author unknown
15 Nov 2005
author unknown
16 Jun 2006


"Geezers" are easy to spot; this is slang for an old man.  But, at sporting events, during the playing of the National Anthem, they hold their caps over their hearts and sing without embarrassment.  They know the words and believe in them.  They remember World War I, the Depression, World War II, Pearl Harbor, Guadalcanal, Normandy and Hitler.  They remember the Atomic Age, the Korean War, The Cold War, the Jet Age and the Moon Landing, not to mention Vietnam.

If you bump into a "Geezer" on the sidewalk, he'll apologize, pass a Geezer on the street, he'll nod, or tip his cap to a lady.  "Geezers" trust strangers and are courtly to women.  They hold the door for the next person and always when walking, make sure the lady is on the inside for protection. 

"Geezers" get embarrassed if someone curses in front of women and children and they don't like violence and filth on TV and in movies.  "Geezers" have moral courage.  "Geezers" seldom brag unless it's about the grandchildren in Little League or music recitals. 

This country needs "Geezers" with their decent values and common sense.  We need them now more than ever.  It's the "Geezers" who know our great country is protected, not by politicians or police, but by the young men and women in the military serving their country in foreign lands, just as they did, without a thought except to do a good job, the best you can and to get home to loved ones. 

Thank God for "OLD GEEZERS."

- submitted by Larry Groah        

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I think I've known a million lads,
Who say they love the sky;
Who'd all be aviators,
And not afraid to fly!

For Duty, Honor, Country,
Their courage I admire!
But it takes more than courage, son,
To get to be a flyer.

When you are only twelve years old
Of course you want to fly!
and tho' you know not what is Death,
You're not afraid to die.

But of the million, more or less,
All must have perfect eyes;
So only half a million now,
Can dream of future skies.

Then comes high school, science, math;
Some choose the easy way:
Football, cars, and dating girls;
Teen pleasures hold their sway.

And of the quarter million left,
One half go on to schools;
The other half will dream and drift,
And never learn the rules.

Now comes the day of testing,
Eight hours of Stanine Hell;
On every subject known to man,
Four-fifths will not do well.

The one in five who pass this test
Apply for flying schools,
The Application Boards will now
Eliminate the fools.

Then comes two days of nakedness,
Flight Surgeons poke and prod;
To pass this Flying Physical
One needs to be a God!

And now, five hundred lucky souls
Will start their Pre-Flight days;
Endure demerits, hunger, cold,
As upper classmen haze.

One-half survive this mental game,
And go to Primary schools,
But only half will hack the course,
Move on to Basic rules.

Two hundred fifty now will try
To pass those Basic tests;
Formation flight soon separates,
The "tiger" from the rest.

One hundred twenty-five will then
Pin on those pilot wings;
The best become 'Top Gun' jocks;
The rest fly other things.

Some will die while learning those
Essential combat skills;
Some will die in combat,
Some will score their "kills."

But they have learned a lesson,
Sometimes lost on you and me;
We must always fight for Freedom,
Because Freedom's never free!

He's a knight in shining armor,
That the ! cruel tyrants fear;
He's that deadly drop of venom
On the tip of Freedom's spear.

Engaging him in battle is a course
That only fools would choose;
He's the world's fiercest warrior,
For he has the most to lose.

So when you see that aviator,
Standing at the bar;
Taking out the garbage,
Or tuning up his car.

You'd best walk up and offer him
Your thanks, extend your hand;
He's that rare "one in a million"
Who Protects this sacred land.

- submitted by Charlie Block        

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"The Final Inspection"

The Marine stood and faced God,
Which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining,
Just as brightly as his brass.

"Step forward now, you Marine,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?"

The Marine squared his shoulders and said,
"No, Lord, I guess I ain't.
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be a saint.

I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.

But, I never took a penny,
That wasn't mine to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills got just too steep.

And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.

I know I don't deserve a place,
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.

If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand.

There was a silence all around the throne,
Where the saints had often trod.
As the soldier waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.

"Step forward now, you Marine,
You've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in Hell." 

  ~Author Unknown~

- submitted by Charlie Block        

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"Old Aviators"

Old Aviators

I hope there's a place way up in the sky,
where old flyers can go on the day that they die.
A place where a guy can buy a cold beer,
for a friend and a comrade, whose memory is dear.

A place where no doctor or lawyer can tread,
nor an FAA type would 'ere be caught dead.
Just a quaint little place, kind of dark, full of smoke,
where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke.

Here must be a place where old flyers would go,
when their flying is finished, and their airspeed gets low.
The kind of a place where a lady could go,
and feel safe and protected by the men she would know.

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,
Who would buy you a drink, if your thirst should be bad,
and relate to others, "He was quite a good lad".

And then through the mist, you'd spot an old guy,
you had not seen in years, though he taught you to fly.
He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear, And say,
"Welcome, my son, I'm pleased that you're here.

For this is the place where the true flyers come,
when their journey is over, and their war has been won.
They've come here at last to be safe and alone,
from the government clerks, and the management clones.

Politicians and lawyers, the Feds and the noise,
where all hours are happy, and they're all good ole' boys.
You can relax with a cold one, maybe deal from a deck
This is heaven my son.....You've passed your last check!"

  ~Author Unknown~

- submitted by Skip Burns        

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