There may be better-cooking, better-looking women,
Better-slung and better at buns than you.
And if I were a man for simple things,
Like flawless skin and bigger dinners,
My dearest, I might have no more to do with you.
But you know well enough that I am much more choosy.
I want day-to-day to find myself with you.
With the cheek-to-cheek, the tooth and claw,
The milk and honey and the bread and water,
Dearest, I want everything to do with you.
A marriage is supposed to go like happy-ever-after clockwork,
Marking time with a regular chime of "I love you!"
But there are days enough when the love is racked and pinioned,
Which nobody else knows better than we two do.
There may be better-read and better bed-time women,
Eruditer wives at night than you.
And if I were the simple sort of bloke
For Kierkegaarde and Kant and cocoa
Dearest, I would have no more to do with you.
But there's no such dependably stupendous woman,
Up to the scratch, no match, not a patch on you.
And eye to eye, or toe to toe,
Kiss for kiss and blow for blow,
My dearest, I want every thing to do with you.
A marriage is supposed to go like happy-ever-after clockwork,
Marking time with a regular chime of "I love you too!"
But there are days enough when the love keeps coming and coming,
Which nobody else knows better than we two do.
There may be smoother-moving, tongue-and-grooving women.
Better-spoken, shorter strokers than you.
But they've all got, as like as not,
A lot better taste in men than you've got.
Dearest, I shall have to just make do with you.
There's no such one-caress-and-leave-me-breathless woman,
No such tender, godsend friend as you.
And not now and then, nor if and whether,
But time and again for ever and ever,
My dearest, I want everything to do with you.
No such one-caress-and-leave-me-breathless woman,
No such tender, godsend friend as you.
And not now and then, nor if and whether,
But time and again for ever and ever,
My dearest, I want everything to do with you.
Better-slung and better at buns than you.
And if I were a man for simple things,
Like flawless skin and bigger dinners,
My dearest, I might have no more to do with you.
But you know well enough that I am much more choosy.
I want day-to-day to find myself with you.
With the cheek-to-cheek, the tooth and claw,
The milk and honey and the bread and water,
Dearest, I want everything to do with you.
A marriage is supposed to go like happy-ever-after clockwork,
Marking time with a regular chime of "I love you!"
But there are days enough when the love is racked and pinioned,
Which nobody else knows better than we two do.
There may be better-read and better bed-time women,
Eruditer wives at night than you.
And if I were the simple sort of bloke
For Kierkegaarde and Kant and cocoa
Dearest, I would have no more to do with you.
But there's no such dependably stupendous woman,
Up to the scratch, no match, not a patch on you.
And eye to eye, or toe to toe,
Kiss for kiss and blow for blow,
My dearest, I want every thing to do with you.
A marriage is supposed to go like happy-ever-after clockwork,
Marking time with a regular chime of "I love you too!"
But there are days enough when the love keeps coming and coming,
Which nobody else knows better than we two do.
There may be smoother-moving, tongue-and-grooving women.
Better-spoken, shorter strokers than you.
But they've all got, as like as not,
A lot better taste in men than you've got.
Dearest, I shall have to just make do with you.
There's no such one-caress-and-leave-me-breathless woman,
No such tender, godsend friend as you.
And not now and then, nor if and whether,
But time and again for ever and ever,
My dearest, I want everything to do with you.
No such one-caress-and-leave-me-breathless woman,
No such tender, godsend friend as you.
And not now and then, nor if and whether,
But time and again for ever and ever,
My dearest, I want everything to do with you.