Foreign fields

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

Sober in the morning light
Things look so much different
To how they looked last night's
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 her
My high-flying bird

My 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