The swing goes high,
Like taking us to the sky.
Few were still cry-cry,
Maybe fear, not shy.
Some wanna try,
Some wanna fly,
Some close their eyes.
Few gave a relieved sigh.
Little ones still deny.
Some could be sly,
And nag, "the turn was my."
Noughty ones cheer with bye-bye.
It's peace, where one can rely,
When tired and feel like die.
The swing goes high,
Like taking us to the sky.
