| I used to dream that I would discover
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| The perfect lover someday.
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| I knew I’d recognize him if ever he came round my way.
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| I always used to fancy then
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| He’d be one of the Godlike kind of men,
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| With a giant brain and a noble head
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| Like the heroes bold in the books I read.
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| But along came Bill, who’s not the type at all;
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| You’d meet him on the street and never notice him.
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| His form and face, his manly grace
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| Are not the kind that you would find in a statue.
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| And I can’t explain, it’s surely not his brain
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| That makes me thrill.
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| I love him because he’s wonderful because he’s just old Bill.
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| He can’t play golf or tennis or polo or sing a solo or row.
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| He isn’t half as handsome as dozens of men that I know.
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| He isn’t tall and straight and slim;
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| And he dresses far worse than Ted or Jim.
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| And I can’t explain why he should be
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| Just the one, one man in the world for me.
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| He’s just my Bill, an ordinary boy,
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| He hasn’t got a thing that I can brag about.
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| And yet to be upon his knee,
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| So comfy and roomy feels natural to me.
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| And I can’t explain,
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| It’s surely not his brain that makes me thrill.
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| I love him because he’s, I don’t know,
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| Because he’s just my Bill. |