they've sunk you in that dunk tank
of religion again, hoping hoping it's
just a so-called phase, that you'll
soon hop that woman-chasin' train
to wedville and pop out some blue-
eyed intelligentsia. and your brother
aims and whoosh, you're down again.

they want Sears portraits for mantel
jewelry. they want copies and copies
of their gene pool, the comeuppance of
middle american success. they sink you like
a witch though. and if you'll capitulate
they'll relent and find you ms. perfectblonde
with a degree in doting. yes dear no
dear sure dear. sex? dinner? this
dress? i'll fetch that's so cute.

they want you to "keep your options
open." perhaps inhibit yourself
to one night a week -- it's GAY DAY at
Wrigley field, and if you're good
you can keep the mementos tucked
in that locked familiar closet.

come on son. take it. it's that
good ole boy drug. not too much now
or you'll kill yourself. we'll
help you become...and you'll like it.
step on up.

with those tincan hands they cut you
so deep. and when you bled
it was all simple, more than pure --
a bump on old mama fascist pride --
a comma to remember who you are
when the water's shrunk and their
trump's worn thin.