Back in the days of kiss-and-tell,
some old geezer had the nerve
to tell his wife, ‘‘I could not love
thee, dear, so much, loved I not
Honor More.’’ Doesn’t that kill you?
Imagine telling your wife you love her
better because you love this other chick.
Who was this ‘‘Honor More’’ anyway?
I’ll say this, his wife was mighty
tolerant and forgiving, or else a fool.
Was More a neighbor, friend, relative,
how did he get by with it anyway?
Think of me some night, I roll over and say,
‘‘Honey Bun, I wouldn’t be so groovy about you
if I wasn’t gone on that Tootsie Roll
down the street, you know, Sadie Menkovich.’’
Man, we wouldn’t have enough blankets
to warm up the chill from that one.
Honor More must have had it in all the right places
and in all directions to get some Willie
to give out like that. What did he tell
his wife for, why not just leave it lay?
If he felt like a frolic, keep it under his hat.
Now, if thoughtful like, I’d say some night,
‘‘Sweetie Pie, I couldn’t be yours for
better or worse without those scrumptious
meals you cook and the cute way you horse
around in bed.’’ Man, I got it made. Let
Honor More lick her own ice cream cone
or fly out the window on a broomstick—
she can’t work our side of the street
