They massed, those guys, up SF way
To mast that big brown eye and say,
"I take you as my spouse for evermore."
A nongay guy strolled around town
And he was just hangin' around,
When someone emerged from City Hall's door.

He said, "Fellow, marry you?
Who's your pard?
He'll marry you
If he's in love with you.
So who'll marry you?
Whoever's hard.
Some fellows marry two--
Avant garde."

Guy moved his lips, out came a voice.
He told them he had made a choice.
In sixties parlance: "I don't swing that way.
I get hot on a poonclit night. . .
Not charmed by one venue tight.
So please let me put it to you this way":

He said, "Fellows, marry, you.
News, report.
Please, marry whom you wish. . .
What's good for you.
So, Stew, marry Lou,
But prep for torts."
Then goodbye, married few,
Hello, courts.