Sure, I can pass.
Honey, I can pass.
Particularly when I start to tip my glass.
I’ll be a sport,
and have a go at that old song,
singing unabashed, about
‘Them city girls,
with their ribbon bows,
and their fancy sash…’
But, though I get so sad
(could swear the night
makes a motion to claim me,
around that second verse),
I reckon I’ve felt worse,
and still held fast.
