Flying, made of sticks and paper.
My 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