At the Smiling Buddha
The bar is full of twenty-somethings
Women in bohemian skirts and hoop earrings
Hippies who haven't cut or washed their hair in weeks
Balding intellectuals in turtlenecks and berets
Faggily good-looking men in tight shirts and girl's jeans
And you, with your torso washboard flat beneath
Your tight shirt, your ass so firm in those girl's jeans
Not balding, but head shaved right down to the scalp
Then there's me, and like a silly Mohawked schoolgirl
I can't stop staring
You buy me a beer with your fake ID
That says you're 20 and from Lake Town, Arizona
A place which may or may not exist
Then we stand there in the swaying crowd
To listen to the distortion-laden music
Your shoulder is warm and nice to lean on
But then in he comes, waltzing in on a cloud
Of men's perfume and Smirnoff Ice
His hand finds its way into your back pocket
And funny, how the first thing that pops
Into my mind is Well, at least it's not another girl
Because that's what I love about gay guys
If they reject you it's not necessarily
Something personal
