Queer

He sits in his room
Playing with his dolls
No one thought of flittiness at all
You won’t see him with The Youth Ahead
Or at those nudie bars
He wouldn’t fall in love with those girls
His mom thinks he’s gay
His mom thinks he’s gay
His mom thinks he’s gay
His mom thinks he’s a flamer
He receives the postcards with those beefy guys
You know when his mom sees them she cries
A passion for males was all it ever seemed
Now his life, it can’t be redeemed
His mom thinks he’s gay
His mom thinks he’s gay
His mom thinks he’s gay
His mom thinks he’s a flamer