“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.