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