Did you ever meet the sort of girl
You wish your son had married
That pluperfect porcelain elf
Who'd fly fish on the shore
While he kayaked down the rapids
Or rafted the river's fork
Who'd match him mogul for mogul
In the skiers' steeple chase?
Who'd fire out five grand kids
Like a hyperactive cannon
Who'd iron his shorts
And starch his sheets
Who'd scour his toilet bowl
With zest
Who'd hitch her covered wagon
To the star of Sonny's needs
While churning out a cheese souffle
Or tending the Eternal Flame
Beneath his cherries jubilee
An Elaine worthy of your Launcelot
The sort of girl who'd spot on cue
The paragon you produced
Who'd embrace each piece of spare advice
Like a chip from the Holy Grail
While pumping peas into Sonny's son
And vacuuming with glee
The sort of girl
Who'd recognize
The rights of prior tenants
The sort of girl
You could spend
The rest of his life with.
