A Red Dress

I want a red dress.
I want a red dress.
I got a red dress.
I got a red dress.
I got a -- wha? Nothing.
I look around -- she's got breasts -- she's
got breasts -- he's got breasts -- I've got
nothing. I've got a red dress.
I've got a red dress. Pedophiles.
and folks who
like boyishness -- I assure you,
you'd be disappointed
because I am in fact grown up
and a woman.
I got a red dress,
a red dress,
a red dress.

Socialites and popular girls,
I assure you, I am not
a boy. I am not
too masculine. I got
a red dress. I got a
red dress. I got two
children and breast fed them
-- one for over a year.
So when you tell me not
to cut my hair because
that is the "only feminine
thing" about me, when you tell
me to wear heels, wear make up,
dye my hair, paint my nails, I say the men
don't seem to care. I
got a red dress.
I got a red dress.

Daddy -- mom and dad --
I assure you, I am not
sleeping with the boys.
I got a red dress, a red
dress. I'm not going to
sleep with anyone like you.
I got a red dress. Out
all night dancing and a one
drink drunk, I got a
red dress, a red dress.
I'm not going to take
the "medicine" -- not going
to sleep all day -- not going
to starve myself or throw
it up -- I didn't stay out
of school -- though it wasn't supposed to
have mattered, I was just going
have babies anyway. I
got a red dress, a red dress.

Copyright Louise Robertson