The man who was a lady
always shaved and flossed his teeth.
And though dressed up in pretty frocks,
wore pants and vest beneath.
"Two pound of sprouts, a pound of mince,"
he'd trill, falsetto tone.
"And three slices of your freshest ham,
cut closely to the bone."

We knew of course that 'Charlene,'
was Charlie 'neath it all.
The wig askew, the high heel shoe,
just pride before the fall.
And through the long hot summer days
that bathed our village square,
we watched him, and we wondered,
if he really was all there.

He lived for years did 'Charlene,'
was the subject of much joke.
The nudge, the wink, 'look at 'im in pink,'
'cause he weren't like other folk.
But when he popped his clogs last year
the church was full to brim.
And we mourned his passing proper fine
with prayer and joyful hymn.

And sometimes as the village sleeps,
if you listen hard and long.
You can hear faint calling on the wind
our Charlie's ghostly song.
'Tis no more than a whisper,
sang in soft and dulcet tone.
"Two pound of sprouts, a pound of mince,
and some ham cut from the bone."