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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. |