He sits in his room,
playing with his dolls.
No one thought of flittiness at all.
You won't see him with The Youth Ahead,
or at those nudie bars.
He wouldn't fall in love with those girls.
His mom thinks he's gay.
His mom thinks he's gay.
His mom thinks he's gay.
His mom thinks he's a flamer.
He receives the postcards with those beefy guys
You know when his mom sees them she cries.
A passion for males was all it ever seemed.
Now his life, it can't be redeemed.
His mom thinks he's gay.
His mom thinks he's gay.
His mom thinks he's gay.
His mom thinks he's a flamer.
