She Powders Her Nose

    A woman is queer, there's no doubt about that.
    She hates to be thin and she hates to be fat;
    One minute it's laughter, the next it's a cry—
    You can't understand her, however you try;
    But there's one thing about her which everyone knows—
    A woman's not dressed till she powders her nose.

    You never can tell what a woman will say;
    She's a law to herself every hour of the day.
    It keeps a man guessing to know what to do,
    And mostly he's wrong when his guessing is through;
    But this you can bet on, wherever she goes
    She'll find some occasion to powder her nose.

    I've studied the sex for a number of years;
    I've watched her in laughter and seen her in tears;
    On her ways and her whims I have pondered a lot,
    To find what will please her and just what will not;
    But all that I've learned from the start to the close
    Is that sooner or later she'll powder her nose.

    At church or a ball game, a dance or a show,
    There's one thing about her I know that I know—
    At weddings or funerals, dinners of taste,
    You can bet that her hand will dive into her waist,
    And every few minutes she'll strike up a pose,
    And the whole world must wait till she powders her nose.