I once knew a man who would wear women's clothes,
He'd put on lipstick and powder his nose.
He'd wear a garter and nylon stocking,
A practice that most folks consider shocking.

High heels and a bra and a pretty pink slip,
And maybe a girdle smoothed over the hip.
Jewellery and earrings and make up galore,
Made him desirous of putting on more.
		
A dress or a blouse or a tight fitting skirt,
A coat and a handbag, with danger he'd flirt.
He'd go for a walk in the fog or the rain,
Seeking his sexual fulfillment in vain.

And as he walks on in high heels through the night,	
Pity, oh, pity the poor transvestite.
For though he is normal when seeking a mate,
His sexual desires he can not abate.

What woman could love any kind of a man,
Who looks like a woman whenever he can.
Society dictates that we can not be free,
And sex role reversal just never can be.

For your average woman despises and loathes
A man who gets roused when wearing her clothes.
Pity, oh, pity the poor transvestite,
Pity him walking alone in the night.

Janey Lang
2nd June, 1987