My Papa, the Paedo walks tall like a hero. He knows what he does though, when he smiles at young girls. He knows what he does - why he logs off at dusk having made such a fuss of cute pictures of us. My Dad, the demon prefers to spill semen whilst dreamin’ of innocent, pretty young children. He don’t look how you’d think have you fooled in a blink and you won’t see a chink of what’s really within. But I do – I can see an unlocked memory of a drunken party. Of coming downstairs and sitting on knees. Army buddies. Cigars and raw sleaze. Of course I know, as I look back now I can explain so easily how Ann-Marie was always scared and how my cousins never cared for the attention-grabbing, raucous laughter; Not buying ‘happy ever after’. They were upset when dad came by I used to always wonder why ... And all of this, he still denies, replacing truth with half-baked lies. But truth remains within my eyes (It’s why he will not meet me: It will be plain for all to see!) When he next logs on for his fix and his fun, he will see this and freeze buckle down to his knees. Where I hope God will watch him and kiss teet at his prayer, reach down for his penis and slice it from there A bad curse on your happiness! Disease on your health! Mad ants on your senses! A wide hole in your wealth! Until you decide to make your deeds known May you always suffer - be in need, yet alone. May you feel every inch of my pain to your bone till dark chariots drag you back down to your home.