This song from the made-for-TV movie musical "Mrs. Santa Claus" has been completely stuck in my head for three days.

A girl with a drive, and a fellow with a dream
Are like pickled herring and vanilla ice cream,
So as unromantic as my words may seem,
We don't go together at all.

My big, loud mouth and your quiet ways
Are like August evenings with December days,
Like corned beef and cabbage topped with mayonnaise.
We don't go together at all.

We're like chicken soup and a slice of ham.
We're the big, bad wolf and the little lamb.
Like a picnic lunch that's ruined by a sudden squall.
We don't, no we don't, no we don't go together at all.

Like an overcoat and a hot July,
Like a bowl of borscht and a pizza pie.
Like if I asked you to come to the policeman's ball.
We don't, no we don't, no we don't go together at all.

An onion roll at a Mayfair tea,
Like a march by Sousa in a minor key.
So forget all the magic that was meant to be.
We don't go together at all.

A stable boy and a suffragette
Is about as peculiar as a pair can get--
So it's oh, such a pity that we even met.
We don't go together at all.

But I like your spunk.
And I like your pride.
So I'll still be there marching at your side
So, I guess, my friend, we must admit the simple fact
That opposites, oh yes, opposites attract.

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