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