She's a friend of mine
She wears hair spray and cologne
And Febreezes all the time.
Shirley, she's a girl
Who really fills up a room
With a swirl, you're enveloped
...In her Per-FumeShirley Dozen-o,
If she knew, surely, she'd care
Her Per-Fume contains Pesti-Cides
That are fogging up the Air
There's Pesti-Cide in soap
In lotions and cologne
They're everywhere, and make me choke
So I end up home alone.
Cide- that means kill
And it's killin' all my fun
Pesti-Cides make me ill,
And Shirley's wearing one.
I don't mean to hurt her feelings
I don't mean to cramp her style
But when she chooses Per-Fume over me
It's hard to laugh and smile
So, I hardly see Miss Shirley
Either way, I'm injured, though.
Her killer scent's not girly
But Shirley doesn't know
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