Excuse me Sir, you may not know;
On that one there it’s slow to show.
She’s tarted up: done some tuning.
All to make you feel the swooning.
The pretty face that made you leer,
Those shapely legs that drew you near,
Do tell of something quite converse,
It’s not a she who holds that purse,
You couldn’t see it was a bloke?
You didn’t notice when she spoke?
The Adam’s apple, manly hips....
Don’t worry son, I’ve sealed my lips.