The Only Gay In The Gaylord by Neil McCall
I'm the only gay in the Gaylord;
it sounds my kind of place.
The waiter brings the raita
and I squirm beneath my lace.
I'm buttered-up and cheesy -
I get it from my nan -
but they'd crucify a queer like me
in small-town Pakistan.
"Oh, why am I so gay, Lord,
Thou who madest my deviant dick?
No answer comes, save condemnatory
squiggles in Arabic.
I'm the snappiest undresser in Longsight
with shades and cream Armani
in subtle yellow counterpoint
where I spilt my biryani.
I paid my bill in the Gaylord,
my manhood well in hand;
the manager cleared my plate with hate
and told me that I'm banned;
'Cos I wrote a note on the toilet wall
for a rendezvous discreet
with a military ghora boy
at a bar off Princess Street.
I was the only gay in the Gaylord
till homophobia won the day
for I still can't tell the imam
or my four wives that I'm gay.
