That bright guitar figure is the first signature event, with the bass walking steady underneath it — unhurried from the very first bar.

There's the voice — David Ruffin — settling right in on top of the groove, and the first thing he gives us is weather: sunshine on a cloudy day.

Same trick, next breath — cold outside, but he's carrying the month of May — and the band still hasn't raised its voice.

Now the verse tips into its question — 'I guess you'll say' — the melody lifting up out of the pocket it's been sitting in.

And there it is — 'my girl.' The verse had been leaning toward those two words the whole way, and they land without any big swell; the voices just start passing them around.

Second verse, richer pictures — honey the bees envy — and the group's answers behind him widen it just a little while the lead keeps the same calm.

Still nothing louder — everything's been at one polite level since the top, which is how a line like 'a sweeter song than the birds' comes out sounding like plain fact instead of a boast.

Same question, same answer — 'my girl' again, the voices echoing right behind — and the repeat isn't padding. The song runs the identical turn on purpose, showing the shape holds.

The voice comes back on 'hey, hey, hey' — barely words, almost pure rhythm — and the groove underneath hasn't changed its easy stride.

Now it gets plain — 'I don't need no money, fortune, or fame' — and after two verses of honey and Maytime, the refusal sounds complete, not defiant.

He sings 'all the riches one man can claim' exactly the way he sang sunshine — same even keel, nothing inflated.

Third time through the same question — by now it's ritual.

Here's where it turns communal — 'my girl,' the answers right behind him, 'talkin' 'bout my girl.' The phrase is less stated now than passed around.

The first line comes back — sunshine on a cloudy day — but the replies are folded right into it now. Same words, different address.

And the trades come fast — 'with my girl,' then the month of May again — phrases stacking up instead of waiting their turn.

'Talkin' 'bout, talkin' 'bout' — the phrase starts stuttering on itself, the form loosening up as it heads home.

'That's all I can talk about' — nearly three minutes in, and that's the whole admission: there is no other subject.

The fade keeps circling the title — 'my girl' — leaving the song on the same plain words it has been returning to all along.