The poet has put his pencil down;
the musician sat down his guitar.
He will no longer write with melancholy,
he will no longer sing the blues.

For he is too happy to be sad,
he's too free to keep the chains;
he's not sad and lonely anymore.
And she's the reason for his new hope.

He'll sing romance, he'll write sonnets.
He'll love and laugh and sing and cry,
but sadness will no longer meet his eye.
For he's too happy to sing the blues.