But you're allowed to try it and I point no fingers
  Sweet Boy, but I'm still wonderin' what it means, boy
  You hold your wrist so limply
  You don't have to camp around

  Save all your money, go confess on Sunday, Sweet Boy
  And you get your copy of "Honey,"
  	back on the street by Monday
  Sweet Boy, but tell me where does that leave me, boy
  Save the satin undies, don't pluck out your eyebrows
  Stow the mincey lisping, you don't have to camp around