| With your photographs of Kitty Hawk
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| And the biplanes on your wall
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| You were always Amy Johnson
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| From the time that you were small
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| No schoolroom kept you grounded
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| While your thoughts could get away
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| You were taking off in Tiger Moths
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| Your wings against the brush-strokes of the day
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| Are you there?
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| On the tarmac with the winter in your hair
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| By the empty hangar doors, you stop and stare
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| Leave the oil-drums behind you, they won’t care
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| Oh, are you there?
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| Oh, you wrapped me up in a leather coat
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| And you took me for a ride
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| We were drifting with the tail-wind
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| When the runway came in sight
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| The clouds came up to gather us
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| And the cockpit turned to white
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| When I looked, the sky was empty
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| I suppose you never saw the landing-lights
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| Are you there?
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| In your jacket with the grease stain and the tear
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| Caught up in the slipstream of the dare
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| The compass rose will guide you anywhere
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| Oh, are you there?
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| The sun comes up on Icarus as the night-birds sail away
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| And lights the maps and diagrams
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| That Leonardo made
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| You can see Faith, Hope and Charity
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| As they bank above the fields
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| You can join the flying circus
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| You can touch the morning air against your wheels
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| Are you there?
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| Do you have a thought for me that you can share?
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| Oh I never thought you’d take me unawares
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| Just call me if you ever need repairs
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| Oh, are you there? |