I want to fly in a windy sky,
Eight eighths blue, clear as gin.
I want to soar where the eagles cry,
Bright as a button, sharp as a pin.
What chance for me, with feet of lead,
I’m just too low to lift my head,
So I’ll just stay in bed instead
And dream a dream of flying.
But sometimes when I sink a drink
I feel a kind of lightness,
A laughing and a lilting
And a sort of flying kiteness,
And up I shoot towards the stars,
Behind the Moon and once round Mars
Then tumble down to sleep in bars
And dream a dream of flying.
So when I fly in that windy sky,
Eight eighths blue, clear as gin.
When I soar where the eagles cry,
Bright as a button, sharp as a pin,
Be careful not to clip my wings,
And drag me back to earthly things.
For soon enough the morning brings
An end to dreams of flying.