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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