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Jethro Tull

Flying, made of sticks and paper.
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,
(My aeroplane.)
(My aeroplane.)
(My aeroplane.)
(My aeroplane.)

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