text: 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