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