It seems he doesn't love her, that is true. . .
Describes her as a bane and shrew.
Takes his money, he'll kvetch;
Thinks he couldn't have made a worse catch,
And so he is gonna tell you;
He'll have his say:
"Take my wife," the ribber pleads,
"Please!" He don't want 'er.
"Take my wife," the ribber pleads,
"Please!" He won't flaunt 'er--
Putting her down, running her down.

He sure knows why he treats her so bad
Verbally; but what he says ain't sad,
Laughter most often is what he will get
With: "She washes; ain't quite cleaned my till yet!"

And so he is gonna tell you;
He'll have his say:
"Take my wife," the ribber pleads,
"Please!" He don't want 'er.
"Take my wife," the ribber pleads,
"Please!" He's a taunter--
Putting her down, running her down

Mugging, teasing, puffing, wheezing,
On a rant, on a rant, on rant till he scores a hit.
Then out comes the laughter, prompted by the ribber.
Puts one down, the drummer: a snare shot, a rimmer,
Banging it down, banging it down.

I do know why we love him like we do,
'cause he's a best-of-Borscht Belt Jew.
More than ten years passed since the pall
Was pulled over him. . .he got the mortal call.

I laugh when I think of Henny
And what he'd say:
"Take my wife," the ribber pleads,
"Please!" Off he'd send 'er.
"Take my wife," the ribber pleads,
"Please! She's a Yenta!"

Funny old clown, funny renown.