In life, we get to choose some things.
Like, where we live, or what we sing,
Or to clean a house, or live like a slob,
Or even, to some extent, your perfect job.
My perfect job would involve
My staying home with the one I love
And never having to do a day of work
Unless I wanted to ('cause I'm not a jerk).
The pay itself would be quite grand,
So I could get necessities as needs demand,
And never have to fret like a mouse,
'Cause I'd never have to leave the house.
But a perfect job's made perfect by
The one who's there at your side.
And as it is, this much is true:
The perfect coworker's my perfect you.
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