The poem
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.