| 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.)
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