Terry, won't you tell me what is your real name?
I'd like for it to be Theresa, just like my favorite saint
I doubt you grew up catholic, or no longer are at least
But the way you ask your questions, you oughta be a priest

I never read the headlines, but always read the bylines
Because it's not what you know, it's who told you so

Maureen, you might blush if I tell a dirty joke
But I bet you like martinis and an after-dinner smoke
I know your mother's letters made men second-guess
If those with most conviction were endowed with righteousness

Amanda, I know you're picky and probably a little prude
But I don't want to sleep with you, I just want to try your food
So won't you make us supper and pour a cup of wine?
I've heard about your husband, and I don't want to meet him this time

Lyrics submitted by Rube

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