#129 go. Out on runway number nine, big seven-o-seven set to go, But I'm stuck here in the grass, where the cold wind blows. Now the liquor tasted good, and the women all were fast, Well there she goes, my friend, she's rollin' now at last. Hear the mighty engines roar, see the silver bird on high, She's away and westward bound, far above the clouds she'll fly, Where the mornin' rain don't fall, and the sun always shines, She'll be flying o'er my home, in about three hours time. This old ai (chordiearchive.chordie.com)