If happiness really was a warm gun
and sunflowers bent their necks towards the sun
as humming birds hum just for the fun
of humming a song whilst' their morning chores done
then, perhaps Lover, we could be one
If the mocking bird twas' never shot by Warm Gun
cradled in an anxious palm of Adam's son
his pursuit of Happiness henceforth won
through triggering the wrathful foe that canst' be outrun
that is why, lover, we shant' be one
a forbidden, sacred, clandestine union
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