Well I'm flying through the air in a little red chair,
looking down on this crazy balloon
I've got a seat by the window to help pass the time;
I can see the man in the moon,
and the lights from Long Island, like a scattering of diamonds,
burn brighter than ever before
as I wave you goodbye through this dirty glass eye,
'though I know you can't see me any more…
(chorus) and I'm wondering "who's flying this plane?",
and "when will I see you again?",
you know it isn't like me to be here in the saddle,
with somebody else holding the reins.
I've got a whole flock of words in my head,
all the ones that a tender embrace leaves unsaid;
got a pen in my hand, hoping they'll come to land
as a song I might sing you instead.
Now the stewardess comes by, and, with a smile in one eye,
says" excuse me, would you like a drink?",
I've got a long way to go and so I don't say "no";
well, it's better, sometimes, not to think.
There's a voice coming out of a hole in the wall telling us all
that it's "safe" now to smoke…
Hey when you're flying through the air, in a little red chair,
that must be someones' idea of a joke.
Now the moonlight has turned all the clouds into snow,
I wanna put on my boots, take a walk;
if I could just open this window, maybe we could go
sit on the wing there, and talk
about sunset and sorrow, and love, and tomorrow,
and all of those words in my head
that a tender embrace tries in vain to replace
and a sorry farewell leaves unsaid…
Could you tell me who's flying this plane?
I'm not used to a saddle without holding the reins,
I'm floating somewhere between heaven and hell…
well, I guess there're somethings never change…
No, I don't have too much to declare,
just my suitcase of dreams, labelled "handle with care"
and a song coming home on a wing and a prayer…
that for me, you will always be there.
© Steve O'Kane