(tune: The Girl That I Marry)
The boy that I marry will have to be
A hermit, neurotic, and wear a goatee,
He'll be arty and smarty and smell of raw gin.
His hair will be stringy and shoulder-length.
He'll show all the girls with his sheer brute strength.
He's a nudist, a Zen Buddhist,
And his social deportment's the crudest.
His room will be cluttered with sculpture weird.
His chin will be covered with unshaved beard.
He's terrific, he's prolific,
His demands and desires quite specific.
He seems to be haunted by some strange hex,
A complex concerning that thing called sex.
He's sublime-o, what a wine-o,
For some young thing from Shipley, divine-o.
So Haverford Harry,
The boy that I marry must be