The reluctant son of a Mafia don
chose smartly to draw the curtain;
for while in his house, high heels and a blouse,
he smell of gay pride was for certain.
He spent winter days sans cute negligees,
at a two-run converging “SLOW” sign.
In ski patrol red, he worked—but his head
dreamed daisies and shopped Calvin Klein.
Now this little lad had a powerful dad
whose sight was as straight as his chin.
And if he had seen that his son was a queen
he’d prob’ly have poofter done in.
But the son had a guise for inquisitive eyes
that held him in ranks of all men.
With a right-clever mind, his linguistics refined,
he impressed with the might of his pen.
His elegant words were always preferred
for their exaltation to snow.
They prompted a grin and read masculine
in a way that no one would know.
His gay friends all laughed at his dark holograph
and pushed him to scream, “I’m a fruit!”
But our hero just yearned for this bane to be burned,
and powerfully penned like a mute.
He pondered a way to show he was gay
without a keen cut to his throat.
But much his chagrin, pulled the curtain again;
in black fishnet stockings he wrote:
“I want to be where I can grow out my hair
and gaze atop great snowy buttes.
On steeps my fear molts by the clutch of my Strolz
as I push down through tight, rugged chutes.”
When this poem was done, wasn’t missed by a one
and drew cheers on three tones of shtick.
The mob called it “Tough!”
“Behave!” cried the cream puffs;
and patrollers said, “Dude, that was sick.”
Though he tickled the fags with metaphorical shags,
gave patrol and the family some pride,
this imprisoned nance didn’t victory dance.
In fact, he just wanted to hide.
He toughed out the season for vertical reason,
but his thoughts of out-coming grew dim.
Then April he gained a Pulitzer reign
and his tyrannical father approached him.
He said to his son as he pulled out his gun,
“I can’t say I’m into this powder.
But I’m not just a thug, come give Dad a hug;
oh my heck, I couldn’t be prouder.”
In a life-threatening choice, son hardened his voice
said, “Dad this may come a surprise.
I once touched a girl and I started to hurl—
don’t kill me, but I only like guys.”
Dad drew a deep breath that exhaled like death;
raised his hand as he started to speak.
“I swear on this pinky, I too was a twinky,
and I still like to drag twice a week.”