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