| It all began when I was born a month too soon
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| My ma was frightened by a runaway saloon
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| Pa was forced to be a hobo
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| Because he played the oboe
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| And the oboe, it is clearly understood
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| Is an ill wind that no one blows good
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| I’ll never forget the morning
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| That Grandpa ate the awning
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| To impress a pretty lady
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| Who went for men that were shady
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| Then my uncle Josia lit the Chicago fire
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| Ran off to Hawaii with the O’Leary cow
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| Which his loving wife resented
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| And there upon invented
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| A rolling pin that strikes and then says pow
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| And I’m the result of the twisted eugenics
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| Of this family of inbred schizophrenics
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| The end of a long long line of bats
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| I design women’s hats
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| I’m Anatole of Paris
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| I shriek with chic, my hat of the week
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| 'Cause 6 divorces, 3 runaway horses
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| I’m Anatole of Paris
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| The hats I sell make husbands yell
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| «Is that a hat or a two room flat?»
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| Let me get my paw
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| On a little piece of straw and viola
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| A chapeau, at 60 bucks a throw
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| It’s how I pull and chew on it
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| The little things I do on it
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| Like placing yards of lacing
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| Or a bicycle built for two on it
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| The little ones, the big ones
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| The sat on by a pig ones
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| The foolish ones that perch
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| And the ghoulish ones that lurch
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| The one called whiskey sour
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| Designed for the cocktail hour
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| A little snip, a potato chip
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| And a trifle off the Eiffel Tower
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| I’m Anatole of Paris, I must design
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| I’m just like wine, I go to your head
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| Give me thread and the needle
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| I itch, I twitch to stitch
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| I’m a glutton for cutting
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| For putting with a button
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| To snip and pluck, nip and tuck
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| Fix and trim, plan the brim
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| Tote that barge, lift that bail
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| And why do I sew each new chapeau
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| With a style they most look positively grim in
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| Strictly between us, entre-nous, I hate women |