| Lyrics: | Flying, made of sticks and paper.
(Aeroplane.)
Dying, is the wind not climbing?
(My
aeroplane.)
Blowing, and going somewhere high;
In the evening tumblin' down,
But it's surely been up there.
Crying, want to live my life as my aeroplane
Sighing,
in the [sun time, but softly?]
(My aeroplane.)
Lonely, but only until it comes
down
Where there's people running 'round.
But it's surely been up
there,
Flying.
(My aeroplane.)
(My aeroplane.)
(My aeroplane.)
(My
aeroplane |
