| She’s a feline tormentor, not any vaudeville wife |
| But with a drunk-town lament he leads her a miserable life |
| But when he’s full of that beer-champagne |
| She pads, paws, pads, paws and claws |
| And if he should wake up in some terrible dive |
| And he don’t know if he’s so-so |
| But he’s so surprised he’s alive |
| «Come on little honey, let me under your hive» |
| She pads, paws, pads, paws and claws |
| She pads, pads around the bedroom, practicing ways to flirt |
| He paws, pours another drink and anything in a skirt |
| Anything wearing a necklace |
| He thinks of claws scratching his back he’s |
| going out there he’s not coming back |
| She’s got spider-leg fingers, sharpened whenever he strays |
| And she carries a bird-purse, with all of her womanly ways |
| 'Til he’s drinking hairspray, she knows that he never would dare |
| She could be in pictures if she wasn’t all covered in fur |
| He’s coming home now and here’s the surprise |
| You wouldn’t believe the lies that he tries |
| She cut him down to her favourite size |
| She pads, paws, pads, paws and claws |
| She pads, paws, pads, paws and claws |