| He stinks to high heaven, half covered with hair
|
| And grunts just like some old orang-utan
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| While she smells of clean skin and a trace of jasmine
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| And speaks like a first rate librarian
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| His stomach hangs out, there’s a hump on his back
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| He eats like Conan the Barbarian
|
| While she keeps herself trim, and her posture is prim
|
| Her manners are quite cosmopolitan
|
| He laughs like a donkey and farts in the bed
|
| And flips cigarettes in the can
|
| But she always acts nice, with no visible vice
|
| Tell me, what does a woman see in a man?
|
| He hangs out in bars and he tells stupid jokes
|
| And seems to think he’s a comedian
|
| But she’s clever, polite, stays sober all night
|
| And sips on her one Presbyterian
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| He drives a gas hog like Attila the Hun
|
| And woe to the luckless pedestrian
|
| While she prefers bikes and bird-watching hikes
|
| And sailing and riding equestrian
|
| He has a name like Duane or Leroy
|
| Hers is Vanessa or Anne
|
| Hers sounds like a song
|
| But Duane is all wrong
|
| Tell me, what does a woman see in a man?
|
| (BRIDGE)
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| Doesn’t she know that she’s unique
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| Doesn’t she know that he’s just a freak -- of nature
|
| Overbearing, insecure, wanting love but so unsure
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| Loving her because she’s pure
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| And yet, dreaming of orgies in Vegas or Cannes
|
| He preens and strikes poses Olympian
|
| While she shoulders the cross
|
| And lets him play boss
|
| His nurse and long-suffering Samaritan
|
| He brags about knocking the world on its ass
|
| But oh, when the shit hits the fan
|
| She’ll bail him out, she’s the one with the clout
|
| Only she knows how humankind ever began
|
| What does a woman see in a man?
|
| What does a woman see in a man? |