I think I've got the whole song now, extracted, using considerable hocus-pocus, from Google:


THE TROUBLE WITH WOMEN
Words, Ogden Nash. Music, Kurt Weil.
From the musical play "One Touch of Venus," 1943.

1. I once loved a girl out in Flatbush,
A picture of beauty and grace;
But she thought kittens came from a catbush,
And she never had heard of first base.
I travel no longer to Flatbush,
Though the girl is both wealthy and pure,
For whenever I tried my desires to confide
Her mind was upon her coiffure.

CHORUS: Oh, the trouble, the trouble with women,
They soften your heart till it melts,
And then at the critical moment
They are thinking about something else.

2. As a student my life was Parisian.
I languished, a captive of sex.
When specks interfered with my vision,
They were lovely, voluptuous specks.
I toiled on a farm tilling soybeans,
In a struggle to chasten my brain,
But the girl beans got in with the boy beans,
And I never struggled again.

CHORUS: Oh, the trouble, the trouble with women,
You think you have left them behind,
You frolic in physical freedom,
And then they turn up on your mind.

3. The reason each day I grow frailer,
Is that I'm trapped in a one-way romance
With a lady who lives in a trailer,
With some devil-may-care debutantes.
Her love for her kin is exquisite.
She entertains uncles galore,
But whenever I pay her a visit
Them uncles won't open the door.

CHORUS: Oh, the trouble, the trouble with women,
I fear that their life is a lie.
While they stall you with maidenly murmurs
They are romping with some other guy.

4. When I drove in my glamorous Chevy
I would park in a suitable spot,
Then I'd turn to the girls like a heavy,
And inquire if they would, or would not.
I always implied that they had to,
But, oh Jimminies, was I perplexed.
On the night that one said she'd be glad to—
I didn't know what to do next.

CHORUS: Oh, the trouble, the trouble with women,
They are either too cold or too warm.
Yes, they're either in flight or insatiable.
Oh, God give me strength to ignor'm.

5. One weekend I rented a Packard
For a maiden of whom I was fond.
Her lips and her toenails were lacquered
And I think she was technically blond.
Her defenses had started to crumble,
I was bursting with masculine pride,
When up spoke a voice from the rumble—
Her mother had stolen a ride.

CHORUS: Oh, the trouble, the trouble with women,
They are constantly one jump ahead.
You touch what you think is a bosom,
And you find it's an eight-ball instead.

6. The reason I moan in my slumber
Is that I'm subject to female rebuffs,
Or if I make a note of a number,
The laundry erases my cuffs.
If I droop like a lily in sadness,
The diagnosis is easy to see,
Every woman has moments of madness,
But never, no never with me.

CHORUS: Oh, the trouble, the trouble with women,
I repeat it again and again,
From Kalamazoo to Kamchatka,
The trouble with women is—men.