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\selectlanguage{english}
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\songcolumns{1}
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\beginsong{Don't Get Married Girls}[by=Leon Rosselson]
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\beginverse
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\[Em]Don't get married, girls. You'll \[A]sign away your \[Em]life.
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You may \[G]start off as a \[D]woman, but you'll \[C]end up \[D]as the \[Em]wife.
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You could be a vestal virgin, take the \[A]veil, or be a \[Em]nun,
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But \[G]don't get \[D]married, girls, for \[C]marriage isn't \[B7]fun.
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Oh, it's \[E]great when you're romancing and he plays the lover's \[B7]part.
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You're the \[A]flowers in his \[E]garden. You're the flame that warms his \[B7]heart.
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And his \[A]love will last for\[E]ever and he'll \[A]promise you the \[E]moon,
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But just \[B7]wait until you're \[E]married and he'll \[B7]sing a different \[E]tune.
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You're his \[A]tapioca \[E]pudding. You're the \[A]dumplings in his \[E]stew,
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But he'll \[A]soon begin to \[E]wonder what he ever saw in \[B7]you.
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Still he \[A]takes without com \[E]plaining all the \[A]dishes you pro\[E]vide,
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But you \[B7]know he likes to \[E]have a little \[B7]jam tart on the \[E]side.
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\endverse
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\beginverse
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So don't get married, girls. It's very badly paid.
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You may start off as the mistress, but you'll end up as the maid.
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Be a daring deep sea diver. Be a polished polyglot,
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But don't get married, girls, for marriage isn't hot.
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Have you seen him in the morning with a face that looks like death,
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With dandruff on his pillow and tobacco on his breath?
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Still he needs some reassurance with his cup of tea in bed,
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'Cos he's worried 'bout the mortgage and the bald patch on his head,
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And he thinks that you're his mother, lays his head upon your breast,
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So you try to boost his ego, iron his shirt, and warm his vest.
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Then you get him off to work. The mighty hunter is restored,
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And he leaves you there with nothing but the dreams you can't afford.
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\endverse
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\beginverse
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So don't get married, girls. Men are all the same.
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They'll just use you when they want you. You'd be better on the game.
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Be a call girl, be a stripper, be a hostess, be a whore,
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But don't get married, girls, for marriage is a bore.
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When he comes home in the evening, he can hardly spare a look.
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All he says is, "What's for dinner?" After all, you're just the cook.
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Then he takes you to a party and he eyes you with a frown,
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And you know you've got to look your best. You mustn't let him down.
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And he'll fix you with that look, and there's that twinkle in his eye,
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Like he's entered in a raffle and he's won you for a prize,
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But when the party's over, you'll go slogging through the sludge
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Half the time a decoration and the other half a drudge.
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\endverse
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\beginverse
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So don't get married. It'll drive you round the bend.
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It's a lane without a turning. It's the end without an end.
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Take a lover every Friday, take up tennis, be a nurse,
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But don't get married, girls, for marriage is a curse.
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For you get him off to work. The mighty hunter is restored,
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And he leaves you there with nothing but the dreams you can't afford.
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\endverse
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\endsong
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