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July 15- 1940.

To Michael Gitt.

by - P.P. and P.P. inc

I know a pilot by name of Mike Gitt.

He is trying to teach us poor suckers to flit

When we land on the ground our britches are slit

it's [[strikethrough]]now[[/strikethrough]] not from what you think it's the way we sit.

That fatal eighth hour when Mike says O.K.! 
He means that tomorrow is the long awaited day 
To bring your bottle and get Michael drunk 
So he cannot tell whether you've flunked.

Then we start our cross country over bushes and trees

Our stick starts to buckle and we get weak in the knees

Our gas line gets clogged, our plugs become fouled

We look for poor Mike but he is not around

cont.-next takeoff - Don't fail to tune in S.H.A.-69.05 Kilocycles