Here 'He' Comes 'Your' Lover And She's 'Gay' Poem by James McLain

Bored your teenage years
it is fun and it's a game,
hidden underneath the
Catholic skirt,
deep lovely pink insane.
just to keep milking it.
the way,
you all now do know how.
Friends for fifteen years
looking at your hands.
warm and slippery.
yellow white and dripping wet.
and ever sowing always sowing.
you're fevered pitch it's hot
and now it's glowing.
all of your faces are beet red.
rejected by him at the prom.
him by all of you.
ruffies you put in his milk.
He does not drink.
Not what you might think
he does not drink at all
and he is good.
and loved by all,
by you and by the rest
just as he should.
and look at him now.
passed out cold.
but how can you now.
how can you,
and your two friends.
while one squeezes firmly full,
the brown paper bag.
and when one's coming up
each flight of stairs
the other's always coming down.
and all of you giggle
change positions and you *sigh.*
and all of that spilled milk.
milk all that white creamy milk.
looking all around
it is every where.
it is on your faces,
even on your hands.
and those blouses
that you change and your skirts.
are soaked as well.
deep asleep,
sleeping like a babe.
and yes you were knowing,
as here he comes again.
and you know by now,
he's in deep pain.
and none of you seem to care.
here comes a lover,
that none of you then knew.
that a hunk like him could
choose to be 'gay'.
and you didn't like, that
all the ones that you wanted
like him, are always gay.
feeding him all of those ruffies,
like the three of you,
you did and
have done in recent past.
like the ones who,
come to school the next day,
and with out any memory
of those nights of the past.
While you keep
all of those pictures as proof
of your thrills.
what do all you think of
your hot selves.
and even more so vainly now.
as he lays there on your couch,
deep fast in rem sweet sleep.
and still alive in all your hands
with your skill he's moving now.