who likes getting off on torture
writing doorstops of smug thuggery
to settle petty scores;
we know about her charity
enabling depravity
from back alleys in Bucharest
to Port-au-Prince’s shores;
we see the politicians
wink and make insinuations
to ensure your misdirection
as, magicians of suspicion,
they hide the hand that disappears
their colleagues’ allegations;
the columnists who polish up
once-tarnished reputations,
dressing up facilitation
as rehabilitation,
as they cutely euphemise
their grooming
as ‘home-schooling’,
call their trafficking ‘adoption’
and expect us to be fooled.
But we see through
their find-the-lady hand-jive
and their prestidigitation.
We’re wise to their forces
and we know the fucking score.
We know where the lady is,
and we know who the groomers are,
and we know where the Huntsman lives
and we refuse to be prey anymore:
We know where the Huntsman lives.
We’re breaking down his door.
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