Tracy was a
stripper; she worked the go-go lounges,
Selling dreams to
biker men, and cops, and other scrounges.
She left her home
to prosper in the clubs of San Hose,
Her legs were
long, her bottom schweet! Her boobs alas, just “A”.
She had an A-team
dancer’s moves, she had grace and charm and pluck,
And when it came
to cuteness she’d disgrace a baby duck.
She could work
the floor and work the bar her people skills were deep,
The way she
buffed the old brass pole made Jaded patrons weep!
But when she
counted up her tips they barely made a dent,
In the car and
light and phone bills; forget about the rent!
As Tracy left the
club one night Bill the bouncer caught her frown,
He led her to a
table and he said, “Hey kid, sit down.”
He signaled to a
waitress, “Trixie, set us up with shooters!”
Then turning
round to Tracey said, “The problem is your hooters."
Oh the fellows
really like you; they love to watch you wiggle,
But to separate
them from their pay you’ll need some frontal jiggle.”
Tracy clutched
her chest and said, “How can this cruelness be?
I cannot be a
jiggly gal, all I’ve got is what you see!”
“Trace, take
this, it holds the cure.” – And Trace required no urgin’,
Bill handed her a
business card: “Sol Goldstein, Plastic Surgeon”
Next morning at
the clinic Trace said “Doctor Solly please!
Can you help a
Sister out and turn these into “B’s”?”
“Ho, ho,” the
kindly doctor laughed, “Dear girl, it is no trouble,
To turn those bee
stings into “D’s”. Said Trace, “Make those a double.”
Now Trace lives
in Monaco in a mansion by the sea.
She drives a
Bentley and a Jag and Royals come for tea.
She has a cook, a
parlor maid, and a butler (his name’s Bill),
She dances
sometimes just for fun and to give the crowd a thrill.
She sips her
champagne cocktail on the fantail of her yacht,
And reflects some
times in wonder on the good things she has got.
As she oils her
phony assets she is sometimes moved to snigger,
It’s amazing what
a girl can do, if only she’ll dream bigger.
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