He comes to her window each day/
And he brings her a small bouquet/
And the window is open/
because she is hopin’/
He will climb in and lead her astray..///
And she seems to own one or two books/
And she sometimes writes verse/
(Which is probably worse)/
but she cleans, and she sews, and she cooks..///
Someday soon they will manage to mate../
They’ll commingle their genes to create/
A presence pathetic/
(yet profoundly poetic)../
A perpetual “ward of the state”.
He comes to her window each day/
And he brings her a small bouquet/
And the window is open/
because she is hopin’/
He will climb in and lead her astray..///
She really is not much for looks/And she seems to own one or two books/
And she sometimes writes verse/
(Which is probably worse)/
but she cleans, and she sews, and she cooks..///
Someday soon they will manage to mate../
They’ll commingle their genes to create/
A presence pathetic/
(yet profoundly poetic)../
A perpetual “ward of the state”.