Little Skylark (the Worsted Wood)
Go to sleep, Little Skylark.
Fly up to the moon
in your biplane of paper and ink.
Your wings creak and croon,
borne aloft by balloons,
and your engine is singing for you.
Go to sleep, Little Skylark, do.
Oh, go to sleep, Little Skylark.
Fly up past the stars
in your biplane of sunshine and ice,
past comets and cars,
past Neptune and Mars.
Still your engine is singing for you.
Go to sleep, Little Skylark, do.
Go to sleep, Little Skylark.
Drift down through the night.
In your biplane of silver and sighs,
slip under the light.
Come down from the heights,
for your mother is singing for you.
Go to sleep, Little Skylark, do.
For your mother is singing for you.
Go to sleep, Little Skylark, do.