Somehow The Lord forgot 'bout me
when passing out love's recipe.
It's made my girl-life living hell -
I've never learned to cook too well.
I've ridden Harleys, they're a breeze
compared to making Mac and Cheese.
I've learned to dress up so exotic -
My cupboard's bare, but it's erotic.
I've ruined cornflakes, spoiled milk.
There must be someone of my ilk
who'll love me for myself, by jove,
and not expect me at his stove.
If I should capture some man's heart
it wont be thru his belly-part.
He'll never want me for my roast -
or even for my melba toast.
I'll dazzle him with dance and song,
with apron, heels and black-lace thong.
I'll spare him my domestic whine -
and pray he takes me out to dine.
[This message has been edited by Lo (edited November 07, 2003).]
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