My name is H  A  R  R  Y,
And sometimes H  U  R  R me,
Rushing 'round, I don't know why.
Working day from A to B.

And rest at C on Saturday.
In the countryside again.
Watching cattle eating hay.
Off to meet Samantha then.

I'm H  A  P  P  Y with her,
On a H  O  R  S  E.
She's a blond fast-moving blur.
Flying through the fields is she.

But then her horse decides to stop.
There's a hedgerow in its way.
The one thing she can do is drop.
And this she does without delay.

Looking dazed and worse for wear,
But still a smile, a healthy sign.
Something's nesting in her hair.
She insists she's feeling fine.

She needs to be at home by four.
A birthday party for her niece.
She takes her shoes off by the door.
The noises in her hair won't cease.

A change of clothes, two different shoes.
Her make-up might look good at night.
Many shades of red and blues.
She asks me if she looks alright.

She still sees stars and little birds.
How she looks she wants to know.
I play the harp and I don't use words.
I'm H  A  R  P  O.

At the party people stare.
They say 'hi' and she says 'who?'.
The thing whose home is in her hair
Tends to stare at people too.

I ask her if she'd like to go
To see a play about a bee.
Instead of the expected 'no',
She says she'd love to go with me.

Her phone then rings. She looks around,
Picks up a book - that's her guess.
She says hello, but there's no sound.
Yeah well I still take that as a 'yes'.