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The O-B-G-Y-N
There is a doctor in our town,
A paragon of men,
His specialty is known to some
As O-B-G-Y-N.
His sense of touch is marvelous
He feels where he can't see.
He started at the bottom and
That's where he'll always be.
Chorus:
Well he's open and candid;
I can't understand it,
And so under handed is the O-B-G-Y-N
Is the O-B-G-Y-N.
You'll walk into his office
And suddenly feel fear.
You know that you would rather be
Anywhere but here.
You try to keep him talking
But your effort he ignores;
Then you see two legs high in the air
And realize their yours.
You think he'd get enough of it;
The thrill would soon be gone.
But he works for the love of it;
He fingers on and on.
He fly's with gay abandon
Where secret sorrows lurk,
But he likes to keep his hand in
'Cause he likes the inside work.
He closes up his office
And homeward makes his way;
His wife is there to greet him
And tell him of her day.
She says I feel romantic;
I'd like one night of love.
In absent-minded reflex,
He pulls out his rubber glove.
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