How you've grown my little bird
Highway, by Ingrid Michaelson
On a highway along the Atlantic I'm rifling through these last 17 years
The radio waxes romantic. Its lullabies fill our eyes with tears
We don't say a word
There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard
And how you've grown my little bird
I'm regretting letting you fly
6 pounds and 7 ounces. A ball of bones and flesh and tears were you
Now your hands, your tiny pink hands, grew larger than my hands ever grew
We don't say a word
There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard
And how you've grown my little bird
I'm regretting letting you fly
I'm regretting letting you fly
I'm regretting letting you fly
On a highway. On a highway
On a highway along the Atlantic I'm rifling through these last 17 years
The radio waxes romantic. Its lullabies fill our eyes with tears
We don't say a word
There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard
And how you've grown my little bird
I'm regretting letting you fly
6 pounds and 7 ounces. A ball of bones and flesh and tears were you
Now your hands, your tiny pink hands, grew larger than my hands ever grew
We don't say a word
There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard
And how you've grown my little bird
I'm regretting letting you fly
I'm regretting letting you fly
I'm regretting letting you fly
On a highway. On a highway