Dear Jim

  

With thanks to Gavin

NB note for American readers. Jimmy Savile. English radio and television disc jockey who rose to prominence in the 1970s in prime time TV shows, one, in particular, in which he granted children their wishes. Later, he was primarily associated with charitable causes.

They are piling into you Savile

they say that you preyed on the weak

that you were a vendor of snake oil

that you took advantage of the meek.

They’re saying that you were a sick-headed

Perv. A pustulent, leering gargoyle –

a sweaty jackal, in a stained shell-suit.

They are pouring oil on troubled oil.

One should not speak ill of the dead

but, sadly, Dear Jim, it’s all true.

You were a sexual predator, a wrong ’un.

They’re asking why no-one rumbled you.

Surely, we all did. We must have known

as you poked the air with your phallic cigar

blowing out promises like stale smoke.

Can you fix it for me, to have a ride in your car?

On any street we would have avoided you –

seen through your saccharine vulgarity

observed that you were broken inside

sensed your horrifying brutality.

Dear Jim, please can I have my innocence back?

You even had the Queen. It was just our luck.

She must have smelled your sour whisky breath.

She gave you a knighthood, you sick fuck.