Peeping Tom

“Mr. French is a peeping Tom”, I stood accused.

For too many summers I had enjoyed, face

Pressed against the glass – the warm hum that comes

Watching a scene from afar, a chapter in somebody elses novel.

The flickering of pages came to a halt as I

Became judge and jury at my own trial.

I see myself as they see me,

‘I only really wanted to climb the tree,

But I slipped and fell, right by the glass,

And I see how it looks to someone walking past’.

“You’re going to have to do better than a rhyme if

Ya don’t wanna do the time” they tell me, the voice

Reverberates, loud, like some old headmasters, throttling my

Youth into sin & landing my dignity, in the bin.


I said, we’ve  all been outside looking in and you don’t

Threaten me anymore with your corduroy and trousers and

Disgusting beard. My story will continue long after your gone!


But then I knew. A peeping Tom never quite loses a reputation.

I had been caught with my trousers down – almost too literally,

Just to get some glimpse of the gown. And the pompous, & ceremony.

I was just one of the unlucky ones

But I got to write about it…

+ they filmed my trial.

I can dream I am free,

It’s only called denial,

That I – Mr. French – am a peeping Tom.


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