DON'T GET MARRIED, GIRLS.
written by Leon Rosselson.
published by him in his book "That's Not the Way It's Got to Be" (1973)
Recorded by him on "Love, Loneliness, Laundry" Acorn Records CF271

Don't get married, girls; you'll sign away your life.
You may start off as a woman but you'll end up as the wife.
You could be a vestal virgin, take the veil and be a nun,
But don't get married, girls, for marriage isn't fun.

It's fine when you're romancing and he plays a lover's part.
You're the roses in his garden; you're the flame that warms his heart,
And his love will last for ever and he'll promise you the moon,
But just wait until you're wedded and he'll sing a different tune.
You're his tapioca pudding; you're the dumplings in his stew,
And he'll soon begin to wonder what he ever saw in you.
Still he takes without complaining all the dishes you provide,
But, you see, he has to have his bit of jam tart on the side.

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 is a plot.

Have you seen him in the morning with a face that looks like death?
He's got dandruff on his pillow and tobacco on his breath,
And he wants some reassurance with his cup of tea in bed,
'Cos he's got worries with the mortgage and the bald patch on his head,
And he's sure 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.

So, don't get married, girls; men are all the same.
They just use you when they need you; you'd do better on the game.
Be 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,
But when he takes you to a party, he eyes you with a frown,
And you know you've got to look your best; you mustn't let him down.
Then he'll clutch you with that 'Look what I've got' sparkle in his eyes,
Like he's entered for a raffle and he's won you for the prize,
But when the party's over, you'll be slogging through the sludge,
Half the time a decoration and the other half a drudge.

So, don't get married; it'll drive you round the bend.
It's the lane without a turning; it's the end without an end.
Change your lover every Friday; take up tennis; be a nurse,
But don't get married, girls, for marriage is a curse.

(Coda)
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.


Sorry, Helen.