A Congregation of Monsters by Don G. Ward

Jimmy got to fiddle  whole lives away,
His old cigar-cured tongue,
Pot-holing terrified teeny-bopper throats,
Cock in hand,
In the dark, obscene,
bbc-green
Back rooms.

Junior staff closed eyes, seniors closed avenues
Of investigation,
As Jimmy procured Teddy, boys,
Toys for Morning Cloud’s,
Boy lover, child molester.
Quiet now,  Jimmy brings in millions.
OBE: Owned, Bought, Exemplified.

Thatcher sodomises the country;
Savile, Stoke Mandeville’s patients.
Celebrate together the passing of the old,
The birth of new suckers,
For these fuckers perverse delight,
Spaced out on power and hunger.

Knighted for extreme duration,
At marathon sessions from John-He-Gropes to Lad’s End.
Royals charmed;  Jimmy, Gentleman sex farmer:
Broadmoor hospital manager,
Leeds Infirmary porter,
Pottering with warm youth and cold corpses,
Dicking the dead, kids giving head.

Impunity, blessings, awards; perversions ignored.
Church, State and Monarchy – that’s the key,
He played them all, this miner’s boy.

And no one knew?
[Know, one knew.]
But no one blew,
Apart the pre-teens,
The whistle,
On the monster
In the dark, obscene,
bbc-green
Back rooms.