{t:Don’t Get Married Girls}
{st:Leon Rosselson}
Oh [Am]don't get married, girls, you'll [D]sign away your [Am]life,
You may [C]start off as a [G]woman, but you'll [F]end up [G]as the [Am]wife.
You could [Am]be a vestal virgin, take the [D]veil and be a [Am]nun,
But [C]don't get [G]married, girls, for [F]marriage isn't [E7]fun.
Oh, it's [A]fine when you're romancing, and he plays the lover's [E7]part,
You're the [D]roses in his [A]garden, you're the flame that warms his [E7]heart.
And his [D]love will last for-[A]ever, and he'll [D]promise you the [A]moon,
But just [E7]wait until you're [A]wedded, and he'll [E7]sing a different [A]tune.
You're his [D]tapioca [A]pudding, you're the [D]dumplings in his [A]stew,
But he'll [D]soon begin to [A]wonder, what he ever saw in [E7]you.
Till he [D]takes without com-[A]plaining all the [D]dishes you pro-[A]vide,
For you [E7]see he’s got to [A]have his bit of [E7]jam tart on the [A]side.
So [Am]don't get married, girls, it's [D]very badly [Am]paid,
You may [C]start off as the [G]mistress, but you'll [F]end up [G]as the [Am]maid.
Be a [Am]daring deep sea diver, be a [D]polished poly-[Am]glot,
But [C]don't get [G]married, girls, for [F]marriage is a [E7]plot.
Have you [A]seen him in the morning, with a face that looks like [E7]death,
With [D]dandruff on his [A]pillow, and tobacco on his [E7]breath?
And he [D]needs some reas-[A]surance, with his [D]cup of tea in [A]bed,
For he's [E7]worried by the [A]mortgage, and the [E7]bald patch on his [A]head.
And he’s [D]sure that you're his [A]mother lays his [D]head upon your [A]breast,
For you [D]try to boost his [A]ego, iron his shirt, and warm his [E7]vest.
Then you [D]get him off to [A]work, the mighty [D]hunter is re-[A]stored,
And he [E7]leaves you there with [A]nothing but the [E7]dreams you can't af-[A]ford.
So [Am]don't get married, girls, [D]men are all the [Am]same,
They'll just [C]use you when they [G]need you, you'd do [F]better [G]on the [Am]game.
Be a [Am]call girl, be a stripper, be a [D]hostess, be a [Am]whore,
But [C]don't get [G]married, girls, for [F]marriage is a [E7]bore.
When he [A]comes home in the evening, he can hardly spare a [E7]look,
All he [D]says is, "What's for [A]dinner?" After all, you're just the [E7]cook.
But when he [D]takes you to a [A]party, well he [D]eyes you with a [A]frown,
For you [E7]know you've got to [A]look your best, you [E7]mustn't let him [A]down.
And he'll [D]clutch you with that [A]“look, what I’ve got” [D]twinkle in his [A]eyes,
Like he's [D]entered for a [A]raffle, and he's won you for the [E7]prize.
Ah, but [D]when the party's [A]over, you'll be [D]slogging through the [A]sludge,
Half the [E7]time a décor-[A]ation and the [E7]other half a [A]drudge.
So [Am]don't get married, it'll [D]drive you round the [Am]bend.
It's the [C]lane without a [G]turning, it's the [F]end with-[G]out an [Am]end.
Take a [Am]lover every Friday, take up [D]tennis, be a [Am]nurse,
But [C]don't get [G]married, girls, for [F]marriage is a [E7]curse.
Then you [D]get him off to [A]work, the mighty [D]hunter is [A]restored,
And he [E7]leaves you there with [A]nothing, but the [E7]dreams you can't af-[A]ford.
{t:Don’t Get Married Girls}
