|
|
|
|
\selectlanguage{english}
|
|
|
|
|
\songcolumns{1}
|
|
|
|
|
\beginsong{Don't Get Married Girls}[by=Leon Rosselson]
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
\beginverse
|
|
|
|
|
\[Mim]Don't get married, girls. You'll \[La]sign away your \[Mim]life.
|
|
|
|
|
You may \[Sol]start off as a \[Ré]woman, but you'll \[Do]end up \[Ré]as the \[Mim]wife.
|
|
|
|
|
You could be a vestal virgin, take the \[La]veil, or be a \[Mim]nun,
|
|
|
|
|
But \[Sol]don't get \[Ré]married, girls, for \[Do]marriage isn't \[Si7]fun.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Oh, it's \[Mi]great when you're romancing and he plays the lover's \[Si7]part.
|
|
|
|
|
You're the \[La]flowers in his \[Mi]garden. You're the flame that warms his \[Si7]heart.
|
|
|
|
|
And his \[La]love will last for\[Mi]ever and he'll \[La]promise you the \[Mi]moon,
|
|
|
|
|
But just \[Si7]wait until you're \[Mi]married and he'll \[Si7]sing a different \[Mi]tune.
|
|
|
|
|
You're his \[La]tapioca \[Mi]pudding. You're the \[La]dumplings in his \[Mi]stew,
|
|
|
|
|
But he'll \[La]soon begin to \[Mi]wonder what he ever saw in \[Si7]you.
|
|
|
|
|
Still he \[La]takes without com \[Mi]plaining all the \[La]dishes you pro\[Mi]vide,
|
|
|
|
|
But you \[Si7]know he likes to \[Mi]have a little \[Si7]jam tart on the \[Mi]side.
|
|
|
|
|
\endverse
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
\beginverse
|
|
|
|
|
So don't get married, girls. It's very badly paid.
|
|
|
|
|
You may start off as the mistress, but you'll end up as the maid.
|
|
|
|
|
Be a daring deep sea diver. Be a polished polyglot,
|
|
|
|
|
But don't get married, girls, for marriage isn't hot.
|
|
|
|
|
Have you seen him in the morning with a face that looks like death,
|
|
|
|
|
With dandruff on his pillow and tobacco on his breath?
|
|
|
|
|
Still he needs some reassurance with his cup of tea in bed,
|
|
|
|
|
'Cos he's worried 'bout the mortgage and the bald patch on his head,
|
|
|
|
|
And he thinks that you're his mother, lays his head upon your breast,
|
|
|
|
|
So you try to boost his ego, iron his shirt, and warm his vest.
|
|
|
|
|
Then you get him off to work. The mighty hunter is restored,
|
|
|
|
|
And he leaves you there with nothing but the dreams you can't afford.
|
|
|
|
|
\endverse
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
\beginverse
|
|
|
|
|
So don't get married, girls. Men are all the same.
|
|
|
|
|
They'll just use you when they want you. You'd be better on the game.
|
|
|
|
|
Be a call girl, be a stripper, be a hostess, be a whore,
|
|
|
|
|
But don't get married, girls, for marriage is a bore.
|
|
|
|
|
When he comes home in the evening, he can hardly spare a look.
|
|
|
|
|
All he says is, "What's for dinner?" After all, you're just the cook.
|
|
|
|
|
Then he takes you to a party and he eyes you with a frown,
|
|
|
|
|
And you know you've got to look your best. You mustn't let him down.
|
|
|
|
|
And he'll fix you with that look, and there's that twinkle in his eye,
|
|
|
|
|
Like he's entered in a raffle and he's won you for a prize,
|
|
|
|
|
But when the party's over, you'll go slogging through the sludge
|
|
|
|
|
Half the time a decoration and the other half a drudge.
|
|
|
|
|
\endverse
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
\beginverse
|
|
|
|
|
So don't get married. It'll drive you round the bend.
|
|
|
|
|
It's a lane without a turning. It's the end without an end.
|
|
|
|
|
Take a lover every Friday, take up tennis, be a nurse,
|
|
|
|
|
But don't get married, girls, for marriage is a curse.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
For you get him off to work. The mighty hunter is restored,
|
|
|
|
|
And he leaves you there with nothing but the dreams you can't afford.
|
|
|
|
|
\endverse
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
\endsong
|
