субота, 12 вересня 2015 р.

Bob McNeil

Their King Dirt Pervert 

Moloch, the parent, 
 Loves filicide 
 And it won’t conceive remorse. 
Moloch, the teacher, 
 Chalks impure lessons 
 Across young slates. 
Moloch, the chaplain, 
 Conducts more than notes 
 In the boys’ choir. 
Moloch, the coach, 
 Wants touchdowns 
 Along preadolescent fields. 
Moloch, the puppeteer, 
 Strings then controls 
 Marionettes attending school. 
Moloch, the kidnapper, 
 Mails enslaved girls anywhere 
 Perversion puts up the postage. 
Moloch, the singer, 
 Lets auditory opiates 
 Procure puerile acolytes. 
Moloch, the comic, 
 Throws Mickey Finn rumors 
 Under sweet pudding standup jokes. 
Moloch, the dieter, 
 Sandwiches his lechery 
 Between underage escorts. 
Moloch, the felon, 
 Pours honeyed rationale atop what he 
Calls sexual boo-boos with babies. 
Moloch, the videographer, 
 Tapes untarnished chicks 
 For voyeuristic hawks. 
Moloch, the actor, 
 Lauds judicial limitations 
 In a pedophiliac soliloquy. 
Moloch, the cinephile, 
 Won’t hear an epigram revealing 
 Woody Allen’s adopted wretchedness. 
Moloch, the reader, 
 Will never see a verse 
 Howling Allen Ginsberg’s pederastic guilt. 
Moloch, the recidivist, 
 Supports NAMBLA among other 
 Atrocities in need of either 
 Depo-Provera or annihilation. 

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