There are any number of ditties popular among the aircrew of the period, most of them parodies.

A POOR AVIATOR LAY DYING
(First World War Version, trad)
Tune: My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean

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.