The Beatles — Happiness Is A Warm Gun (Lennon/McCartney)
She’s not a girl who misses much. Oh yeah.
She’s well acquainted with the touch of the velvet hand like a lizard on a window pane.
The man in the crowd with the multicoloured mirrors on his hobnail boots.
Lying with his eyes while his hands are busy working overtime.
A soap impression of his wife which he ate and donated to the National Trust.
Down, I need a fix, ’cause I’m going down,
Down to the bits that I left uptown.
I need a fix ’cause I’m going down.
Mother Superior, jump the gun…
Happiness is a warm gun, happiness is a warm gun, Mumma!
When I hold you in my arms and I feel my finger on your trigger
I know nobody can do me no harm.
Because is a warm gun, mama,
Happiness is a warm gun, yes, it is,
Happiness is a warm, yes, it is, gun.
Well, don’t you know that happiness is a warm gun, mama?