The hypocrite

You choke on your cornflakes over stories of vicars and hoares,

And when the death sentence is imposed you give loud applause.

When they call for moral regeneration your first in the queue,

Oh my friend what if they knew what you do.

Behind closed doors the lamplight is low,

To the girl, barely legal, you are “Mr So and So”.

When the deed’s done homewards you go,

To the wife, and the kids – fine, upstanding Mr So and So.