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 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