| This is just to tell you
|
| That I wear your dress sometimes
|
| The one you made with the gold brocade
|
| And the empire waist line
|
| You fit it to your figure
|
| When it looked just like my own
|
| That was Jersey in the fifties
|
| When the women stayed at home
|
| So you laid your paper pattern
|
| On the table in between
|
| The silver wearing napkins
|
| And the Harper’s magazines
|
| From a slow suburban season
|
| That is nothing but a dream
|
| To your granddaughter
|
| This is just to tell you
|
| That I wear your dress sometimes
|
| Wear it down to the bar in town
|
| And I dance around all night
|
| Talking and joking
|
| Swearing and smoking
|
| Like any stranger in the crowd
|
| And nobody stares
|
| And nobody cares to tell me I’m not allowed
|
| I am allowed
|
| And my body by the letter of the law is still my own
|
| When I lay down in the darkness
|
| Unburdened and alone
|
| With the liberty you’ve given
|
| Like the clothing you’ve outgrown
|
| To your granddaughter
|
| To your granddaughter
|
| This is just to tell you
|
| That I wear your dress sometimes |