Testo Don't Get Married

Don't Get MarriedDon't get married girls; you'll sign away your lifeYou may start off as the woman, but you'll end up as 'the Wife'You could be a vestal virgin, take the veil and be a nunBut don't get married girls for marriage isn't funOh, it's fine when you're romancing and he plays the lover's partYou're the roses in his garden; you're the flame that warms his heartAnd his love will last forever and he'll promise you the moonBut just wait until you're wedded, then he'll sing a different tuneYou're his tapioca pudding; you're the dumplings in his stewBut he'll soon begin to wonder what he ever saw in youStill he takes without complaining, all the dishes you provideFor you see he's got to have, his bit of jam tart on the sideSo don't get married girls, it's very badly paidYou may start off as the mistress, but you'll end up as the maidBe a daring deep sea diver, be a polished polyglotBut don't get married girls, for marriage is a plotHave you seen him in the morning, with a face that looks like death?With dandruff on his pillow, and tobacco on his breathAnd he needs some reassurance, with his cup of tea in bedFor he's worried by the mortgage, and the bald patch on his headAnd he's sure that your his mother, lays his head upon your breastSo you try to boost his ego, iron his shirt and warm his vestThen you get him off to work; the mighty hunter is restoredAnd he leaves you there with nothing, but the dreams you can't affordSo don't get married girls, men are all the sameThey just use you when they need you; you'd do better on the gameBe a call girl, be a stripper, be a hostess, be a whoreBut don't get married girls, for marriage is a boreWhen he comes home in the evening, he can hardly spare a lookAll he says is, 'What's for dinner?' After all you're just the cookBut when he takes you to a party, well, he eyes you with a frownFor you know you've got to look your best, you mustn't let him downAnd he'll clutch you with that, 'Look-what-I've-got' twinkle in his eyesLike he's entered for a raffle, and he's won you for the prizeNow but when the party is over, you'll be slogging through the sludgeHalf the time a decoration, and the other half a drudgeSo don't get married, it'll drive you round the bendIt's the lane without a turning; it's the end without an endTake a lover every Friday, take up tennis, be a nurseBut don't get married girls, for marriage is a curseThen you get him off to work; the mighty hunter is restoredAnd he leaves you there with nothing, but the dreams you can't afford(Leon Rossellson)Don't get married girls; you'll sign away your lifeYou may start off as the woman, but you'll end up as 'the Wife'You could be a vestal virgin, take the veil and be a nunBut don't get married girls for marriage isn't funOh, it's fine when you're romancing and he plays the lover's partYou're the roses in his garden; you're the flame that warms his heartAnd his love will last forever and he'll promise you the moonBut just wait until you're wedded, then he'll sing a different tuneYou're his tapioca pudding; you're the dumplings in his stewBut he'll soon begin to wonder what he ever saw in youStill he takes without complaining, all the dishes you provideFor you see he's got to have, his bit of jam tart on the sideSo don't get married girls, it's very badly paidYou may start off as the mistress, but you'll end up as the maidBe a daring deep sea diver, be a polished polyglotBut don't get married girls, for marriage is a plotHave you seen him in the morning, with a face that looks like death?With dandruff on his pillow, and tobacco on his breathAnd he needs some reassurance, with his cup of tea in bedFor he's worried by the mortgage, and the bald patch on his headAnd he's sure that your his mother, lays his head upon your breastSo you try to boost his ego, iron his shirt and warm his vestThen you get him off to work; the mighty hunter is restoredAnd he leaves you there with nothing, but the dreams you can't affordSo don't get married girls, men are all the sameThey just use you when they need you; you'd do better on the gameBe a call girl, be a stripper, be a hostess, be a whoreBut don't get married girls, for marriage is a boreWhen he comes home in the evening, he can hardly spare a lookAll he says is, 'What's for dinner?' After all you're just the cookBut when he takes you to a party, well, he eyes you with a frownFor you know you've got to look your best, you mustn't let him downAnd he'll clutch you with that, 'Look-what-I've-got' twinkle in his eyesLike he's entered for a raffle, and he's won you for the prizeNow but when the party is over, you'll be slogging through the sludgeHalf the time a decoration, and the other half a drudgeSo don't get married, it'll drive you round the bendIt's the lane without a turning; it's the end without an endTake a lover every Friday, take up tennis, be a nurseBut don't get married girls, for marriage is a curseThen you get him off to work; the mighty hunter is restoredAnd he leaves you there with nothing, but the dreams you can't afford