[Certain]

The girls used to call him quiet but nice, the choir-boy type,
who never came at them with tired ol' lines.
They liked him, and he would smile and nod in the halls.
The other boys despised him as odd with no balls.
But they didn't understand. Really, he didn't, either.
So every time he felt it move in the locker room, he hid his peter.
And every time Brad Jones, the quarterback for the team
walked past him, he'd flash a quick glimpse at the back of his jeans.
Meth told himself he was admiring Brad's physical fitness
but his penis was rigid in twitches and he knew he'd hit it in an instant.
It was time. Meth couldn't pretend any longer.
He wanted to sharpen his pencil and schlong in some men who could flog him.
This dude's a homo. There's no way around it.
The truth was almost as obvious as his youthful boners, a gay endowment.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, though, right?
Well, there wasn't until that cold night
when young Meth made a pass at Brad's hole, tight.
See Meth tried to stick it in during showers after swimming
and the rest of the football team didn't cower to his sinning.
So Meth found himself tied up to the water tower with no linens
and no one to help because the whole town had heard the witness.
This dude's a homo, so now he's trying to reconcile his habits
by moderating a message board and calling people "faggots."
But he'll always know the truth, that he likes men and asses,
and even with no friends in classes, he still hopes to find an end to ravage.