Oh, the bold aviator was dying
And as 'neath the wreckage he lay, he lay
To the sobbing mechanics about him
These last parting words he did say

"Take the cylinders out of my kidneys
The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain
From the small of my back get the crankshaft
And assemble the engine again"

Two valve springs you’ll find in my stomach,
Three spark plugs are safe in my lung, my lung,
The prop is in splinters inside me,
To my fingers the joy-stick has clung.

Take the propeller boss out of my liver,
Take the aileron out of my thigh, my thigh,
From the seat of my pants take the piston,
Then see if the old crate will fly.

alternatively:

The young aviator lay dying
And as in the hangar he lay
To the mechanics who 'round him were standing
These last parting words he did say:

"Take the cylinders out of my kidneys,
And the connecting rod out of my brain,
From out of my *rse take the crankshaft,
And assemble the engine again."

A poor aviator lay dying
At the end of a bright summer's day
His comrades had gathered about him
To carry his fragments away

The airplane was piled on his wishbone
His Hotchkiss was wrapped round his head
He wore a spark-plug on each elbow
'Twas plain he would shortly be dead

He spit out a valve and a gasket
And stirred in the sump where he lay
And then to his wondering comrades
These brave parting words he did say

"Take the magneto out of my stomach,
And the butterfly valve off my neck,
Extract from my liver the crankshaft,
There are lots of good parts in this wreck"

"Take the manifold out of my larynx,
And the cylinders out of my brain,
Take the piston rods out of my kidneys,
And assemble the engine again."

Additional verses in some versions detract from the poignancy of the pilot being one with his aeroplane.

Pull the longeron out of my backbone,
The turnbuckle out of my ear (my ear).
From the small of my back take the rudder-
There's all of your aeroplane here.

I'll be riding a cloud in the morning,
With no rotary before me to cuss (to cuss).
Take the lead from your feet and get busy,
Here's another lad needing the bus!

Take the bullet from out of my shoulder,
Take the shrapnel out of my brain,
And the pom-pom from out of my liver,
And patch up the turret again

I’ll be riding a cloud in the morning,
No more this gun turret to cuss,
So please patch me up in my shroud,
For I’ll not be needing this bus

So hold all your glasses steady,
And let’s drink a toast to the sky,
For here’s to the dead already,
And here’s to the next man to die

Oh, had I the wings of a little dove,
Far a-way, far a-way would I fly, I fly,
Straight to the arms of my true-love,
And there would I lay me and die.

Then get you two little white tombstones,
Put them one at my head and my toe, my toe,
And get you a penknife and scratch there,
“Here lies a poor pilot below.”

And when at the Court of Enquiry
They ask for the reason I died, I died,
Please say I forgot twice iota
Was the minimum angle of glide.

An AA gunner lay dying
At the end of a midsummer’s day.
His comrades were gathered around him
To carry his fragments away.

The mounting was piled on his wishbone,
The breech-block was wrapped round his head,
A shell stuck out of his elbow,
It was plain that he’d shortly be dead.

He spat out a toggle and rammer
And stirred in the oil where he lay.
Then to his poor mournful comrades
These brave parting words did he say:

‘Take the rollers out of my stomach,
‘Take the breech-block out of my neck,
‘Remove from my kidneys the handwheel.
‘There’s lots of good parts in this wreck.’

‘Take the chase out of my gullet,
‘Take the interceptor out of my brain,
‘Extract from my liver the striker,
‘And assemble the pom-pom again.’

‘I’ll be riding a cloud in the morning,
‘And aircraft no more shall I fear,
‘And high on a cloud over Scapa
‘I’ll shed all my good friends a tear.’

‘So don’t mourn too much over my body.
‘Damn old Hitler and all of his lies.
‘Here’s a health to the dead already.
‘Let’s hope he’s the next one who dies.’

I never fly in aircraft ‘cos I haven’t got the guts,
I sit upon my ass all day and write out lots of bumph,
The Aircrew call me “Penguin”, ‘cos I haven’t any wings,
I’m one of the Chairborne Airmen, shiny pants and shiny rings.

CHORUS
If the flak went bang, my knees would clang,
My ring would blaze away,
My head would whirl, my tail would curl,
I’d run the other way,
For I’m absolutely useless when it comes to fighting wars,
I can only sit upon my ass and wear holes in my drawers.

I stand and watch the Aircrew when they take off for a flight,
And thank the Lord I’ll not be there when searchlights probe the night,
I’ve never had to corkscrew, I’ve never had to weave,
The only thing that I can do is stop the Aircrew leave.

Just now I’m a practising upon the barrack square,
To get the boys a marching like they fly up in the air,
One day there’ll be a parade, a bloody big parade,
And in front of all the Aircrew goes the shiny-assed brigade.

We work from nine till five each day, with two breaks off for tea,
I’ve never had an engine cut, and feathering’s Greek to me,
When Aircrew come and see us, we nearly throw a fit,
The only thing that we can do is sign a clearance chit.

I’d hate to be sent out one night upon a ruddy op,
My heart would sink into my boots, I’m sure my guts would drop,
But the AOC comes up to me and takes me by the hand,
And promises me another ring, to stay upon the land.

THE BOLD RACING DRIVER LAY DYING

Oh, the bold racing driver was dying
And as 'mongst the wreckage he lay,
To the sobbing mechanics about him
These last parting words he did say

"Take the cylinders out of my kidneys
The injectors take out of my brain,
From the small of my back get the camshaft
And assemble the engine again"

Some wheel nuts you'll find in my stomach,
And the clutch you'll find safe in my lung,
There's an axle in splinters inside me,
To my fingers the steering has clung.

Take the manifold out of my liver,
And the fu-el pump out of my thigh,
From the seat of my pants take the drive-shaft,
Then see if this baby will drive!"