When a bunch of girls get togeth er
for a date in town,
it al ways starts with brunch,
formerly known as lunch.
And we talk about clothes and men,
the new Broadway shows and men.
We talk about the scandalous
books we've read,
and the cute things some
body's baby said.
But we always go back to men,
again and again and again.
The worst kind of man,
some girls will tell you,
is the kind that drinks too much at parties,
does boring im itations,
wears a lampshade for a hat,
an d when he gets tired of that,
He tells dirty stories,
then passes out in the morning glories
I agree, he
wouldn't be the man for me
The worst kind of man,
in one girl's opinion
Is a man who's in his early fifties,
but thinks he's Casanova
All his clothes are Ivy League,
and he loves the gay intrigue
He has a lusty hunger
Only four girls out of thirty years younger
I agree, he wouldn't
be the man for me
But still, when it's Saturday night
And there's no one to take
you to the dance
You look through your little black book
Let's see
No, not him
Look through your little black book
Oh, those jokes, I couldn't stand it
Once more through your little black book
Well, I guess he'll have to do
What's the use of talkin'?
The worst kind of ridin'
beats the best kind of walkin'
So take it from me
Don't be too choosy
He may be duller than cotton stockings
and drives a 41 Chevy
and though his jokes are stale
he's breathing and he's male
what the heck if he's at
your back and call you'll find
the worst kind of man
is much better than no man
no man no man at all
you