| She comes in the back door around nine o’clock
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| She changes right into her red paisley smock
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| She’s dusting and polishing, the shmutz goes away
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| I know she’ll go too by the end of the day
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| She bends down and wipes underneath every door
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| She reaches and bleaches the whole kitchen floor
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| I know that she’s leaving at quarter to three
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| Maybe I’ll spill something, she’ll stay longer with me
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| She’s my Wednesday balabusta
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| She’s my Tuesday Weld
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| My June Cleaver
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| She’s my once-a-week balabusta
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| And I’m weak in the knees
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| Watching her clean
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| Her phone rings, she’s speaking in words I don’t know
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| I’m hoping he’s telling her it’s time for him to go
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| The thought of her with me, I’m starting to shvitz
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| Maybe I’ll order those tapes from Berlitz
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| She’s hungry, she stops for a Nutrisystem drink
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| She’s perfect but she doesn’t know what I think
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| I should get another place that’s not too far away
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| Maybe she’ll give me an extra day
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| She’s my Wednesday balabusta
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| She’s my Sunday bride
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| My May flower
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| She’s my once-a-week balabusta |
| And I wish that she’d
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| Vacuum me in
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| She picks up the money, she’s waving good-bye
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| I’m smiling but inside I’m starting to cry
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| I keep things too tidy, so she’ll like me too
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| I really should give her some more things to do
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| I’m shivering, I found it, it’s something she wrote
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| I need Ajax and Clorox, it’s all in the note
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| It’s her way of telling me she’ll see me again
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| I’m happy I don’t have to wonder when
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| She’s my Wednesday balabusta
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| A mid-week mitzvah
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| The place is spotless
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| She’s my once-a-week balabusta
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| And I’ll see her again
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| Next week |