Daddy

Where have you been to Daddy
when you come back in your black bow tie
smelling of whiskey and bon homie
with your six pointed star medallion
tucked up away with your special white apron?
You say you’ve been to the shrine of Osiris,
a secret sign of the bold Grand Arch
protects you Daddy from the bogie man’s march.
A brotherhood so covert and loyal
which has the privilege of being royal:
A nice little club of likeminded men,
giving each other a leg up now and again.
You’ve policemen and judges and solicitors too
social workers, teachers all protecting you.

Where do you go to Daddy as you close the door,
take off your shiny black shoes and tiptoe upstairs:
What do you become Daddy
as you softly creep into my fairy bedroom,
in your smelly socks breathing foul halitosis.
The odour of cigars creeps in alongside you
as you pull back the duvet and take off your trousers.
Why do you scratch me with your stubbly chin
touch me with hands still reeking of gin?
I pray to your Godess, the Egyptian Isis
to stop her devotee, but no one listens.
You’re set square to avoid the process of justice
you’re immune from the laws which others must follow.
As the straw man plunges, I bite my pillow.

What do you think of Daddy as you talk of Mummy
that poor mad creature who stabbed you in the dark?
Why didn’t you tell them Daddy she was thinking of me
as she pierced your left buttock, you still bear the mark,
there’s no one left now to protect me Daddy.
I’ve seen the Cullen Report on Dunblane
protect the abusers for one hundred years.
Your secret society seems to have no shame,
children in Flintshire have to live with their fears
and the jeers of the lawyers who heard of their pain
took tainted evidence salted with crocodile tears.
Are we a part of your ritual abuse?
Is that why you had to paint Mummy insane?
Or do you just do it to amuse?