Nanette (a.k.a. Poor Bette)

Nanette (a.k.a. Poor Bette)

Tid-Bettes: Bette first started doing this song during her Clams On The Half Shell Revue in 1975, however, the lyric “Nanette” was replaced with “Poor Bette.” The song was a self mocking lament performed during the barroom segment. The song later replaced Bette’s own self penned “I Had To Resort To Beauty” as the introduction song for The Bag Lady during Bette’s Songs For The New Depression Tour, and thus the character became known as Nanette. Both versions of the song are presented below.

Nanette
(Howard Dietz)

Whoa-oh, Nanette
Whoa-oh, Nanette
Whoa-oh, Nanette

Not a sound, not a sigh
The world rushes by
No one thinks of Nanette
No one sighs for Nanette
No one sings for Nanette

Through the night, through the day
People rush on their way
With never a sigh or regret
And they are laughing and drinking
So heedless and unthinking of
Nanette, Nanette, Nanette

The cowboy rides and roasts his steer
And rolls and cigarette
But of all the cowboys, and all the plains
Not one of them thinks of Nanette

The sailor sails on the bounding main
Of seven seas and yet
Of all the sailors on schooners and whalers
Not one of them thinks of Nanette

In China, the Chinkie no thinkie of Nanettie
In Italy, Degos on and on and on
Without a thought of Piccolo-Nanetta
To the East, to the West
To the North, to the South
Ireland, Scotland
England and Whales

They don’t forget me
Or remember me
‘Cause no one ever met me

Poor Bette
(Howard Dietz)

Midnight
Another Saturday night bites the dust
Sunday
Gloomy Sunday

Whoa-oh, poor Bette
Whoa-oh, poor Bette
Whoa-oh, poor Bette

Not a sound, not a sigh
The world hurries by
No one thinks of poor Bette
No one dreams of poor Bette
No one sings for Nanette

Through the night, through the day
People go on their way
With never a sigh or regret
And they are laughing and drinking
So heedless and unthinking of
Poor Bette, poor Bette
P.B.

The cowboy rides and roasts his steer
And rolls and cigarette
But of all the cowboys, and all the plains
Not one of them thinks of poor Bette

The sailor sails on the bounding main
Of seven seas and yet
Of all the sailors on schooners and whalers
Not one of them thinks of poor Bette

And in Morocco
Women join the foreign legions of Tiflet
Through the hell and the heat
I am forced to repeat
No one thinks of poor Bette

In China, the Chinkie no thinkie of poor Betty
In Italy, Degos on and on and on
Without a thought of poor Elisabetta
To the East, to the West
To the North, to the South
Ireland, Scotland
England and Whales

They don’t remember
Or forget me
‘Cause no one ever met me