Oh, please do not pity the poor transvestite,
When he is out walking alone in the night.
For how can you even imagine the thrill,
That he can be feeling, when walking until,
His image as "woman" is fixed in his mind,
And his feminine side at last he can find.
The sound of his high heels as he walks along,
Are singing to him their sweet siren song.
And the feel of his nylons and panties and slip,
The feel of the make up and lipstick on lip,
Are nectar so sweet like a gift from above,
Is it so strange that he is in love?
In love with this image of feminine grace,
In love with the dresses, the satins and lace.
The feel of the bra and the slip and the shoes,
Are tactile sensations that help him to lose,
His masculine side and allow to emerge,
A woman within who is there on the verge.
Oh no, do not pity that proud transvestite,
Who should not be forced to walk in the night.
Envy instead his wonderful gift,
Envy the way that his spirits can lift.
Envy the way that his soul can aspire,
Envy his burning passion afire.
For who should deride and say it is sin,
For at last setting free, the woman within.

Janey Lang
6th Oct.'95.