Happyness is a warm gun

She's not a girl who misses much, du du du du du du, 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 multicolored 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. (Instrumental:) I need a fix 'cause I'm goin' down, down to the bits that I left up town, I need a fix 'cause I'm goin' down. Mother Superior, jump the guns, Mother Superior, jump the guns. Mother Superior, jump the guns, Mother Superior, jump the guns. Mother Superior, jump the guns, Mother Superior, jump the guns. Happiness is a warm gun, happiness is a warm gun, mama. (Spoken section:) When I hold you in my arms, and I feel my finger on your trigger, I know nobody can do me no harm, because: Happiness 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, yeah!