When I was young, I could never be roused, by their proffered choice of careers,
And butchers and bakers and lawyers and such were, really, the sum of my fears,
Should I be an accountant and add up long sums, and make my poor mother feel proud?
Or be a regular builder or joiner or such, as my dear old dad had allowed?
But all of these options, well, they didn't feel right, in fact, they weren't right in the least,
And, had anyone asked me, which nobody did, I'd say, I want to be a Cross-Dressing Striptease Artiste.
A dream in gold lamé, a taffeta queen, I'd glitter and sparkle most days,
And I dreamt of the spotlight and frenzied applause as I filled out those forms for Safeways.
A male Lilly St Cyr or Gypsy Rose Lee, yeah, that's what I wanted to be,
Not stuck at my desk, in Croydon High Street, selling insurance from nine until three.
So, though I haven't a dress, but I'm here on this stage, and I'm indulging my cherished life dream,
And I'm stripping in public, right here and right now, and I fancy I can hear you all scream!
That's genuine shoulder, and chest, bit caved in, ah, I sense that you're turning to jelly,
As I flaunt my hot body, hey, I'm almost pension age, and display you my muffin top belly.
So, should I go on, or modesty prevail, are you ready for a full frontal strip?
Or has your temperature risen to such a degree that you're needing a cold water dip?
But they're gesturing wildly and shouting to me, my time, it is up, on the stage,
And I can hear the management shouting, right there from the wings, oh for God's sake, Max, act your age!
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