Friday night and the lights are low,
But the heels on your shoes mean you have to walk
slow,
Your 'tache just won't be bleached
The beard just won't be shaved
But you've got the look you've craved
Anybody can see you're gay,
You can tell by their faces when you prance their way,
You call somebody 'darling'
The people stop and stare
As your hand flaps in the air
And you've lost a breast somewhere...

'Cos you are the mincing queen,
Style your own hair, see the glossy sheen,
Mincing queen, break a nail and you cause a scene
You can mince,
You can smile,
And pull every once in a while
And everyone says:
"See that prat? What does he mean by becoming a
mincing queen?"

Your false eyelashes are in your drink,
And your bountiful breasts have started to shrink,
Your mascara is running
Your hair is now a mess
You've got wine down your dress
Someone offers an aspirin,
And you know your lipstick's run down your chin
You try and stand alone
But your legs start to go
And that's when you know
That you just can't say no...

'Cos you are the mincing queen,
Dressed in drag, always check that your clothes are
clean,
Mincing queen, labelled a slag by some magazine,
"He/she's a freak!"
"He/she is sick!"
"It's a woman who's sporting a dick!"
But sod them! What do they know?
You're not a ho,
You're just a mincing queen