I guess my dad handicapped me:
With iron fists and alcohol breath,
He showed me a path to anger,
He brought me closer to death.
I cheated his on-hand lessons
To follow my sexual heart,
And thought myself so strong and proud
To escape the gay, body mart.
But men who are lovers become fathers,
Eventually, soon or late,
Iron breath is replaced by cold fancy,
Waiting a line away from hate.
So dad conceived a wriggly sperm,
That he thought wriggled out way too wrong,
So here the poor thing vainly sits and writes,
Still hoping to seem strong through this song.