Elton John, PNAU - Foreign Fields lyrics
[Elton John, PNAU - Foreign Fields lyrics]
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 backstage 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
Mm, 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 weatherman 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 weatherman 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
Mm, in the foreign field of death
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 backstage 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
Mm, 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 weatherman 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 weatherman 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
Mm, in the foreign field of death