The path to Hell is paved with good intent And old wives' tales serve to tell what is right Sleeping dogs lay outside my tent While inside I avoid a pointless fight Who I am she does not know I have not told and will not tell I will not let it show So I buy whatever she has to sell In her limits she knows all But to say that she is correct That takes oh so much gall With experience so little and select I don't care to open her mind Let someone else make that crack I'll not be the one to break that bind Someone else might have the caring which I lack So she can talk on about those groups Some are ones to which I belong Pretend her knowledge swoops And babble all day long No, I know she means well But why must she say What makes her dwell On the evils of all that is gay?