You and Me and Tom



We’re crashing at your parents’ pad
on our way down to the Pride parade
You must’ve lied, ’cause the word “pride”
has been replaced by the words “free trade”
You never said home was a subdivision called “Patriot Hills”
Someone tore down the Berlin Wall, yet this is still Flagwaverville
Everyone’s palefaced and no-one’s poor
Nothing has changed since the Civil War
There’s NRA stickers on the door

In the garage, there’s a corsage
proudly preserved since your junior prom,
And there’s a torch they keep on the porch,
in case they need it for someone’s lawn
Then there’s the shrine:
photos of Golden Boys in hordes loom in the den
lovingly culled since you were born, and born again, and born again
Everyone’s dressed for a pilgrimage
The Reader’s Digests are all abridged
There’s NRA magnets on the fridge

So I wonder what you’re gonna tell your mom
about you and me and Tom

But the family’s collapsing! the family collapsing!
Haven’t you people heard the news?
It’s decreed open season on all social taboos
Because the family’s collapsing! the family collapsing!
Couples are bailing out in force
If you can’t keep abreast of the rest, get a divorce
get a divorce, get a divorce

Dinner is served, rules are observed,
you never told me you played with tanks
Everyone takes fifty-ounce steaks,
bowing their heads to their knees in thanks
— Holy Genet —
Nothing I possibly could say wouldn’t be rude
Somehow the bathroom must be safe
“May I be excused? I swallowed some food.”
Under the portrait of young Bob Hope
sharing a platitude with the Pope,
there’s “NRA” carved into the soap

So I wonder what you’re gonna tell your mom
about you and me and Tom

But the family’s collapsing! the family collapsing!
Haven’t you people heard a thing?
All that’s virtuous, righteous and good hangs by a string
Because the family’s collapsing! the family collapsing!
It’s not an actual family
It’s a Christian condition become metonymy
metonymy, metonymy

Tell them you’re broke! Tell them you smoke!
Tell them you’re joining the Viet Cong
Tell them you’re dead, and you’re inbred,
and you’ve decided that Rush is wrong
Tell them it all:
You’ve joined a cult of wise fakirs who only eat beans
You’ve found a promising career in porn magazines in New Orleans
Tell them you’re Noam Chomsky’s protégé
Tell them you’re anything else but gay
Tell them you’ve blown up the NRA

And I wonder when you’re gonna tell your mom
about you and me and Tom