My high-flying, high-flying bird, My high-flying, high-flying bird, My high-flying bird, Has flown from out my arms, I thought myself her keeper, She thought I meant her harm
My high-flying, high-flying bird, My high-flying, high-flying bird,
Sober in the morning light, Things look so much different, To how they looked last night, As whispers circulate all day, Their back-stage baby princess passed away
The white walls of your dressing-room are stained in scarlet red, You bled upon the cold stone like a young man, In the foreign field of death
My high-flying bird, Has flown from out my arms, I thought myself her keeper, She thought I meant her harm, She thought I was the archer, A weather-man of words
My high-flying bird, Has flown from out my arms, I thought myself her keeper, She thought I meant her harm, She thought I was the archer, A weather-man of words, But I could never shoot down, My high-flying bird
My high-flying, high-flying bird, My high-flying, high-flying bird, My high-flying, high-flying bird, My high-flying, high-flying bird
The white walls of your dressing-room are stained in scarlet red, You bled upon the cold stone like a young man, In the foreign field of death