She’s not a girl who misses much,
Do do do do do do, oh yeah.
She’s well acquainted with the touch of the velvet hand,
Like a lizard on a windowpane.
The man in the crowd with the multi-colored 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.
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.
When I hold you in my arms,
I feel my finger on your trigger.
I know no one can do me no harm,
Because Happiness is a warm gun.
Happiness is a warm gun.
Don’t you know that happiness is a warm gun?
Happiness is a warm gun.