Being a shorty, as you see,
A bare five footer,
The why my wife is true to me
Is my six-shooter.
For every time a guy goes by
Who looks like a lover,
I polish it to catch his eye,
And spin it over.
He notes its notches as I say:
‘Believe me, Brother,
If Junie ever goes astray,
They’ll be another.’
A husband has to have a gun
And guts to pull it:
Few fellows think a bit of fun
Is worth a bullet.
For June would sit on any knee
If it wore pants,
Yet she is faithful unto me,
As gossip grants.
And though I know some six-foot guy
Would better suit her,
Her virtue triumphs, thanks to my
Six shooter.
