"Almost perfect...but not quite."
Those were the words of Mary Hume
At her seventh birthday party,
Looking 'round the ribboned room.
"This tablecloth is rose not white--
Almost perfect...but not quite."

"Almost perfect...but not quite."
Those were the words of grown-up Mary
Talking about her handsome beau'
The one she wasn't going to marry.
"Squeezes me a bit too tight--
Almost perfect...but not quite."

Ninety-eight the jour she died
Complainin' 'bout the spotless floor.
People shook their heads and sighed.
"Guess that she'll like heaven more."
Up went her soul on feathered wings,
Out the door, up out of site.
Another voice from heaven came--
"Almost perfect...but not quite."