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On a highway along the Atlantic |
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I'm rifling through these last seventeen years |
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The radio waxes romantic |
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It's lullabies fill our eyes with tears |
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We don't say a word |
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There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard |
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And how you've grown my little bird |
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I'm regretting letting you fly |
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Six pounds and seven ounces |
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A ball of bones and flesh and tears were you |
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Now your hands, your tiny pink hands |
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Grew larger than my hands ever grew |
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We don't say a word |
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There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard |
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And how you've, how you've grown my little bird |
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I'm regretting letting you fly |
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I'm regretting letting you fly |
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I'm regretting letting you fly |
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On a highway, on a highway |
