“Honey,” I’d ask, “where have you been?
You’ve been gone for hours.
Dinner was ready a long time ago.
By the way, thank you for the flowers.”

“Sweetheart,” I’d ask, “Where are you going?
Don’t we have plans for the show?
Will you promise to be back on time?
Excuse me, but I have to know.”

“Why,” he’d say, “are you writing a book,
And filling the pages with doubt,
Or a history of my lack of decorum?
'Cause if you are, leave that chapter out.”

“Where have you been, and where are you going?
Who are you with, and who are you knowing?
What are the problems for you to stay?
How can I love you this way?”

“Why,” he’d say, “Are you writing a book,
And filling the pages with doubt,
Or a history of my lack of decorum?
'Cause if you are, leave that chapter out.”