Baby wouldn’t tease below;
her hand will never squeeze-bestow—
she says, “No!”

I’m in love with her,
but I feel mine.

Baby will not mine below
or fell my stately pine that grows—
she says, “No!”

I’m in love with her,
but I feel mine.

I’ve a gland she won’t diddle, this girl.
I’ve a hand for swelling that’s unfurled.

’cause my baby will not finger, no,
my rising giant thing; her “No!”
She says, so. . .

She will not cuff me,
so I feel mine.

Baby will not mine below
She tells me all the time, it’s no!
Won’t say, “Go!”

I’d love it if her
hand would feel mine.

I’ve a gland I diddle ’cause this girl
keeps her hand in her ringlets atwirl.

’cause my baby will not finger, no,
My pliant then up thing; her “No!”
She says, so. . .

I’m in love with her,
but I feel mine.
I’m my own lover
and I feel mine
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!