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I used to dream that I would discover

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The perfect lover someday.

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I knew I'd recognize him if ever

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He came 'round my way.

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I always used to fancy then

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He'd be one of the god-like kind of men,

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With a giant brain and a noble head,

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Like the heroes bold

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In the books I've read.

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But along came Bill, who's not the type at all.

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You'd meet him on the street and never notice him.

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His form, his face, his manly grace

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Are not the kind that you would find in a statue.

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And I can't explain--

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It's surely not his brain that makes me thrill.

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I love him because, he's wonderful

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Because he's just my 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 I know.
He isn't tall or straight or slim,
And he dresses far worse than Ted or Jim.
And I can't explain whey he should be
Just the one, one, man in the world for me.
He's just my Bill, and ordinary guy.
He hasn't got a thing that I can brag about
And yet to be, upon his knee,
So comfy and roomy
Seems 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.

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