But along came Bill, who’s not the type at all;
You’d meet him on the street and never notice him.
His form and face, his manly grace
Are not the kind that you would find in a statue.
And I can’t explain, it’s surely not his brain
That makes me thrill.
I love him because he’s wonderful because he’s just old Bill.
He can’t play golf or tennis or polo or sing a solo or row.
He isn’t half as handsome as dozens of men that I know.
He isn’t tall and straight and slim;
And he dresses far worse than Ted or Jim.
And I can’t explain why he should be
Just the one, one man in the world for me.
He’s just my Bill, an ordinary boy,
He hasn’t got a thing that I can brag about.
And yet to be upon his knee,
So comfy and roomy feels natural to me.
And I can’t explain,
It’s surely not his brain that makes me thrill.
I love him because he’s, I don’t know,
Because he’s just my Bill.