It’s four in the morning, you ain’t home yet—
you’d like to worry me to death.
You come slinking in like some sleazy little weasel.
I can smell the whiskey on your breath.
You tell me you been partying with your best friend.
You say that he’ll confirm your alibi.
But how can I believe a single word you say
if you can’t even look me in the eye?
(Chorus)
I want you to come over here and
swear it on the Bible
swear it on the Bible
swear it on the Bible
that you ain’t runnin’ ‘round on me.
It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I ain’t stupid,
and something tells me you been runnin’ round.
Maybe it’s that hair I see clinging to your shirt.
That hair is long and blond—my hair is brown.
That lipstick on your collar, it ain’t my shade of red.
That cheap perfume I smell, it ain’t my brand.
And I can’t help but wonder why your shirt’s on inside out—
answer that one for me if you can.
(Chorus)
Shame on you for lying to me,
and shame on you for all the wicked things you do.
Shame on you for behaving like a fool,
and shame on me for putting up with you.
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