​

Mistah Mohr—he bred.

We are the swallow men

We are the stuffed men

Spooning together

Lynn’s piece fills my maw. And ass!

Our high voices, when

We lisp words together

Are bereft of manliness

As limp-wrists who prance

Or scat queens who are nicknamed "nance"

At the Comedy Cellar

​

Those who have tossed

Half-erect guys, whose breath reeks of twink bum

Remember us—if at all—not as glossed

Widened holes, but only

As the swallow men

The stuffed men.