by Stephen Sondheim
Never judge a book by its cover.
The thing that counts is what's inside.
Never judge a lady by her lover --
It isn't a reliable guide.
The lady may decide her obligations
Are merely to reflect his expectations.
If his idea of ecstasy's
To see what he expects to see --
Well, ignorance is bliss.
But think of what he'll miss...
She was smart, tart, dry as a martini.
Ah, but underneath...
She was all heart, something by Puccini,
Ah, but underneath...
In the depths of her interior
Were fears she was inferior.
And something even eerier.
But no one dared to query her superior exterior.
She was chic, sleek, anything in fashion --
That was just a shell.
Take a close peek, you could see the passion --
That was one as well.
To conclude, you'd soon discover the secret of her ap-peal,
Was the wonder which lay underneath --
Which she wasn't about to reveal.
That was her liability, the curse of versatility.
She'd only allow a man to see enough to fan his fantasy.
She made compliance into a science,
One of the giants -- loud or lewd or lah-dee-dah-dee,
Everything to everybody.
As changeable as a chameleon with all that entails.
But nobody saw what was really underneath all those veils.
She was grand, bland, brave or brisk or brittle,
Anything required,
Both concerned and strictly non-committal --
And a little tired.
She was deftly deferential, or so they wrote on her wreath.
No one ever glimpsed her potential,
But when stripped down to the essential --
Mind you, this is confidential:
She was --
Sometimes when the wrappings fall,
There's nothing underneath at all.
