The frightened little boy who came from Belfast
Has grown up in only seven days
The child whose worried eyes were always downcast
Has left behind those awkward childish ways
Like one who has uncovered hidden treasure
The point of my existence now is clear
Happiness exceeding mortal measure
Is mine whenever Joyce is standing near
Will this feeling really stay with me forever?
Is true love as eternal as they say?
Can those poets and those writers who are clever
Really promise it will never pass away?
I know what Joyce would say if I should ask her
She’d tell me not to analyse the dream
Love doesn’t visit so we might unmask her
Accept that things are just the way they seem.
I’ve got to give our love affair a chance
This isn’t just a holiday romance.