When I was just a tadpole I was giv’ to understand,
That in order for a gentleman to give a girl his hand,
He’d have to be up on his books, his rhymin’ and his diction,
As it’s well known, what lacks in fact, is made up best in fiction.
So in order to insure that I would not in marriage err,
My Daddy early on explained in what I must take care:
Not muscles, clothes or riches, son, will get you off the hook,
If you ever dare imply that your wife’s not the world’s best cook.
And furthermore your life will be a damned sight better off,
If you compliment her choice of clothes, and drapes and tablecloth.
In short, your neck will go a long way towards avoiding getting wrung,
If you polish up your verbitage and exercise your tongue.
Well, I gussied up my speech and got a special kind of twang,
So that upon my words the gals would liter-ally hang,
And I seriously began to charm the lady I liked best,
And got her all in awe and let the preacher do the rest..
And when I got her home I sat her down inside the kitchen,
Just to let her know that I was boss and she must listen.
She smiled and started talkin’ ’bout her life ‘n’ this ‘n’ that,
And she whiled away the afternoon with pleasantries and chat.
And then she launched into a rather lengthy diatribe,
On relatives and friends whose private lives she must describe,
And this went on about a week or two I guess,
And the subject changed to mothers and to premenstrual stress.
“But…,” was all that I could manage in the middle of her ode,
And that reminded her of all the lovers she had knowed.
And on she went undaunted, while I poured myself a dose,
And that’s the way it’s been for nigh on fifty year’n I ‘spose.
I resolved that I’d get even ere my final days had passed,
And when I upon my deathbed lay, I saw my chance at last,
She asked me, what about the will, and I finally replied,
“I left it to the deaf school”. And then I up and died.