Being a shorty, as you see,
 A bare five footer,
The why my wife is true to me
 Is my six-shooter.
For every time a guy goes by
 Who looks like a lover,
I polish it to catch his eye,
 And spin it over.

He notes its notches as I say:
 'Believe me, Brother,
If Junie ever goes astray,
 They'll be another.'
A husband has to have a gun
 And guts to pull it:
Few fellows think a bit of fun
 Is worth a bullet.

For June would sit on any knee
 If it wore pants,
Yet she is faithful unto me,
 As gossip grants.
And though I know some six-foot guy
 Would better suit her,
Her virtue triumphs, thanks to my
 Six shooter.