She Powders Her Nose

A woman is queer, there's no doubt about that.

She hates to be thin and she hates to be fat;

One minute it's laughter, the next it's a cry —

You can n't understand her, however you try;

But there's one thing about her which everyone knows —

A woman's not dressed till she powders her nose.

You never can tell what a woman will say;

She's a law to herself every hour of the day.

It keeps a man guessing to know what to do,

And mostly he's wrong when his guessing is through;

But this you can bet on, wherever she goes

She'll find some occasion to powder her nose.

I've studied the sex for a number of years;

I've watched her in laughter and seen her in tears;

On her ways and her whims I have pondered a lot,

To find what will please her and just what will not;

But all that I've learned from the start to the close

Is that sooner or later she'll powder her nose.

At church or a ball game, a dance or a show,

There's one thing about her I know that I know —

At weddings or funerals, dinners of taste,

You can bet that her hand will dive into her waist,

And every few minutes she'll strike up a pose,

And the whole world must wait till she powders her nose.