Hey, little girl,
Bun your hair; use no makeup,
Soon you'll be wife 24.
Ain't got enough room for rings on his finger;
Of wives he's more than a score

More wives he's wantin', so he'll love you.
After he's finished humping number 22,
He'll score with you.

Laid on the day
That you'd just turned 11,
Although it could have been 10.
Now you must wash with your hair that was curled up
His feet, then knot it again.

For wives should always be mum and do
Just what their husbands and the prophet tell them to,
Year after year.

Hey, little girl,
Better wear something prairie,
In this Texas aerie, that drags in the sand.
They've dimmed the lights in your mind.
For abused chicks, time to get ready for "hon."
You're one of 20-
plus hons with his oven buns.