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Don't Worry About the Airplane

by Russ Gunby [tune of "Wabash Cannonball"]


    One day while at the airport,
    With nothing much to do,
    I saw a man come falling,
    Streaming down from out of the blue.
    I knew this man was surely dead.
    I stood there frozen mute.
    'Til heard the snap and the crack,
    Of his openin' parachute.

    Don't worry about the airplane;
    You're leavin' it behind.
    Don't worry about the altitude;
    It's up there all the time.
    Don't worry about your parachute;
    It'll always stop your fall.
    But if you're slow, you're headed low,
    To a smashing, crashing fall.

    His canopy was black and gold;
    Great holes were showing through.
    He glided north, he glided south,
    He turned and stalled it too.
    He landed at the target,
    Stood up so easily.
    I asked him how he did it,
    And this is what he said to me –

    Don't worry about the airplane;
    You're leavin' it behind.
    Don't worry about the altitude;
    It's up there all the time.
    Don't worry about your parachute;
    It'll always stop your fall.
    But if you're slow, you're headed low,
    To a smashing, crashing fall.

    When you hear the engines fading,
    And dive out through the door,
    And your speed builds up to terminal,
    And you hear the wind's loud roar,
    Then you're flying free, and life's carefree,
    'Til the earth comes rushing fast.
    Don't wait too long, 'til the ripcord's gone,
    Or this jump will be your last.

    Don't worry about the airplane;
    You're leavin' it behind.
    Don't worry about the altitude;
    It's up there all the time.
    Don't worry about your parachute;
    It'll always stop your fall.
    But if you're slow, you're headed low,
    To a smashing, crashing fall.

    When you're reaching for your ripcord,
    You know your time is running out.
    You're headed down to eighteen hundred,
    And your burble's not shook out;
    Horizon's gone, you start to roll,
    You spiral and zap out.
    Unless you sprout some feathers, boy,
    You better whip it out!

    Don't worry about the airplane;
    You're leavin' it behind.
    Don't worry about the altitude;
    It's up there all the time.
    Don't worry about your parachute;
    It'll always stop your fall.
    But if you're slow, you're headed low,
    To a smashing, crashing fall.

    Now all you men who drink a lot,
    Have not a thing to fear.
    You jump on Sunday mornin'
    Full of whiskey, gin, and beer.
    Pull out the chocks, load up the plane,
    Let's hear that Nordsmen's call;
    And ride to the graveyard drop zone,
    In a smashing, crashing, fall.

    Don't worry about the airport;
    You're leavin' it behind.
    Don't worry about the lousy spot;
    You can't track back in time.
    Don't look for the ripcords;
    You can't find them at all.
    But the lake or dump or power lines;
    Will stop your smashing, crashing fall.






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