Cross-dress, ye married gentlemen,
Let nothing you dissuade.
Members won't be spied by gapers
Unless you wear tight suede.
Some say you are in Satan's power
And you have gone astray,
'Cause you're trying to hide that you're a boy,
That you're a boy.
'Cause you're trying to hide that you're a boy

You've checked the hem and your legs feel
Like ladies' when they're shorn.
Your wife says, you're a stranger,
Afraid to use your horn.
"Tonight I've got a threadache,
But we'll have sex in the morn,
Slipping and sliding, I am still a boy,
With a big toy.
I'll be riding you and we will hump for joy.

"Till then, don't call me 'father';
I am dressed as a dame.
I look good in skin of leopard,
Just call me Tarzan's Jane.
I go to join my brethren, shorn
Of their leonine manes,
Which we hide with a pancake-makeup ploy,
A makeup ploy,
Which we hide with a pancake-makeup ploy."

They don't appear like angels,
Oh, their wigs are a fright.
And no one will mistake them
For virgin acolytes.
To see them in bustiers is
A quite laughable sight.
They're not hiding the fact that they are boys,
That they are boys.
They're not hiding the fact that they are boys.

A shepherdess comes gliding,
With togs from Prada's line.
She's wearing a flocked fleecy thing
That reveals her whole spine.
But she walks in a real male way
And wears size 39.
She's not hiding the fact that she's a boy,
That she's a boy.
She's not hiding the fact that she's a boy.

The problem with brethren in hems
Is, they get in the way.
And add to that the danger
Of heels on which they sway.
It can be scary—falling down
And landing on your face
When you're trying hard not to be a boy,
To be a boy.
When you are trying hard not to be a boy.

Ladies and Nordstrom's was a phase;
They've found their happy place.
They have dissolved their sisterhood,
And moved to a new space.
They have formed a garage band
And are looking for a bass.
Neighbors crying as they run from the noise,
Run from the noise.
Neighbors crying as they run from the noise.