Foreign Fields

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