Beatles
Happiness is a Warm Gun She’s not a girl who misses muchDo do do do do do do do 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 mirrorsOn his hobnail bootsLying with his eyes while his hands are busyWorking overtimeA soap impression of his wife which he ate
And donated to the Nation Trust.
I need a fix ’cause I’m going downDown to the bits that I left uptownI need a fix cause I’m going downMother Superior jump the gunMother Superior jump the gunMother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun.
Happiness is a warm gunHappiness is a warm gunWhen I hold you in my armsAnd I feel my finger on your triggerI know no one can do me no harmBecause happiness is a warm gun