In pursuit

Independence is my nature, I'm a hunter in my soul
I pursue the things men do to make themselves more whole.
I have captured life now for more than thirty years,
and Liberty, that haughty bitch, I've beat her into tears.
Now my prey has green sludge upon his toes and yellow eyes alight
I follow him into the bitter darkness almost every night.
I enjoy while he slays the little children as he leaps from neath their bunks
and tempts the lusty ladies one and all because let's face it: he's a hunk;
I follow him, for he is sly and witty and quite bold
apparently he's been around, I hear he's rather old.
His name, of course, for those ignorant and foolish
is Happiness, sweet Happiness, though he looks rather ghoulish.
He's not on postage stamps, to send him to anyone you love
and he has no department in the government and answers to no one up above.
He won't do therapy, so don't look there (besides, I hear he's a dreadful bore.
Yet everyone that knows him well wants to know him more.)
Men have declared the pursuit of him a right from the creator
and some have thought him lady like and often want to date her.
some will seek him in lands where electricity is magic
and others will think they've found him in doomed love, and it's so tragic.
But I know him so damned beastly well and all his ugly features
I know him and I love him well, that All American creature.