I'm mad about the boy.
And I know it's stupid to be mad about the boy.
I'm so ashamed of it,
but must admit,
the sleepless nights I've had about the boy.
On
the silver screen,
he melts my foolish heart in every single scene.
Although I'm quite aware that here and there are traces of the can
about the boy.
Lord knows I'm not a fool girl.
I really shouldn't care.
Lord knows I'm not a school girl who's
in the flurry of her first affair.
Will it ever cloy?
This odd diversity of misery and joy.
I'm feeling quite insane and young again,
and all because I'm mad about the boy.
I'm feeling quite insane and young again,
and all
because I'm mad about the boy.
The booking agent had a dog.
You know, you pay for the overtime.
So he went to the booking agent, he said,
listen man,
I got a talking dog,
say you got to give me some kind of gig here.
I don't
know what's happening.
I got to have me some kinds of money.
And so he said, see my dog
here?
He said, ask him anything.
So he asked,
the booking agent said,
how was your trip
coming from Europe?
The dog said, rough.
So he said, how was things in Europe?
The dog
said, rough.
So he said,
hey,
what was the headlines in the newspaper this morning?
The
dog didn't say nothing.
He said,
I said,
what was the headlines in the paper this
morning?
The dog didn't say nothing.
So the booking agent said, you must think I'm
crazy or something.
You get this dog out here.
Are you kidding?
A talking dog.
So
this cat got the dog home.
He said,
he put the whip in the dog.
How come you didn't tell that booking agent what
the headlines in the newspaper was this morning?
And the dog got on his knees,
he looked up at the cat and said,
you know damn well I can't read.
All right, we'll pay the overtime.
Pretty good, huh?