The Subject Was Faggots

We'd like to do a poem... if I can find it
Called "The subject was faggots"
Because it came up one night
When I caught myself going to a dance
Going to a dance that was being held on 34th Street 8th Avenue
I'm sure you're all aware what famous dance houses they have there
And I was standing outside, not being cool, huh
Trying to find out who was going to go in, that I'd figure I'd be able to talk to
And they were holding a faggot ball in the next half of the building
So I got kinda confused and I had to sit down to write this poem

The subject was faggots
And the quote was:
Ain't nothing happening but
Faggots and dope
Faggots and dope
Faggots and faggots and faggots
Who lying
Dot, dot, dot, dot, dot
Like that
34th Street and 8th Avenue
Giggling and grinning and prancing and shit
Trying their best to see the
Misses and miseries and miscellaneous misfits
Who were just about to attend the faggot ball
Faggots who had come to ball
Faggots who had come to ball
Faggots who were balling
Because they could not get their balls inside the faggot hall
Balling, balling, ball-less faggots
Cutie, cootie, and snootie faggots
I mean you just had to dig it
To dig it
The crowning attraction being the arrival
Of Miss Brooklyn
Looking like a half-act in a miniskirt
With swan feathers covering his or her, uh, its pectorals and balls
As she, uh, he, uh, it
Prepared to enter the faggot ball
But sitting on the corner, digging all that I did
As I did
Long, long, black limousines
And long, flowing evening gowns
Had there been no sign on the door saying:
"Faggot ball"
I might have entered
And God only knows just what would have happened

The subject was faggots

I'm glad you made it Charlie, I'm glad you made it