Park Bench Tales and other writings

Thoughts and writings reflecting the poet within and the activist

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A brief life (adult)

A brief life

She believed she would find herself with the great escape

Far away from home she believed she would make the break

Those stories of danger she was convinced were all fake

She had convinced herself this time there would be no mistake

Lured by his secret messages she would live the dream

Enticed at night by her friends into the clubbing scene

She would be a centre of attention a real drama queen

He was about to rescue her and they would be a team

Within the dream there was a desire to play the whore

He could see his opportunity with just two Proseccos more

She swayed drunkenly around upon the polished dance floor

Then upon his arm she staggered towards the door

All had begun when she was assured her entrance was free

Then her new friend had told her ‘The drinks are all on me’

Little did she realize he had in mind a different fee

Her destiny was to satisfy the lust of his depravity

She had perfected that just-turned-teenage look with her smile

Not realising the cultured image might attract the paedophile

She brought alive all his wicked fantasies with a juvenile

In her drunken stupor she gave her body for him to defile

At first it was only him then and who was really to blame

When she satisfied his friends one by one without any shame

Submitting to each new request she was the football in their game

Tomorrow night he’d collect her and they could do it all again

She’d perform for anyone who would offer a lift

Unknown to each of them they had gained an unwanted gift

It was their visits to the clinic that led to the rift

Her body dumped in an alleyway having completed her last shift

Copyright: David Hopcroft December 2022

This poem is about abuse. In the UK there is support from a number of organisations.

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3. The Night

3. The Night

Cramped into a taxi wondering what this night will bring

Free entrance to a basement club where only gentlemen pay

Accepting the drinks and hinting at something in return

Deceiving in appearance as she let her swaying body sing

What might her mother think if she knew she was this way

Walking to the dance floor with a wiggle from her stern

At last free from those who would tell her how to behave

Fun was what she wished for though she played a naive game

Friends on social media had boasted of their success

She clung to his sweating body ready to be his slave

Performing acts that she would regret with shame

The addiction to a myth the only part she would not undress

Copyright: David Hopcroft November 2022


A Wasted Life

A wasted life

She stood before the blazing fire where the corn king burned

Lay prostrate upon the earth when the ashes had cooled

Wishing her life would yield the temptation she yearned

Oft had she been the tempter and oft had she been fooled

Now she rose and stood before the windswept dunes

Listening to waves crashing from the angry sea

Last night she had lain upon her bed and cast the runes

Stared from her casement window at the rowan tree

Black the colour she had chosen for her body mask

Her soul sold long ago to the devil underground

The Prosecco glass now discarded for the methylated flask

The flash of the incoming storm she must be homeward bound

From the boiling cauldron rose the thunder god

Discarded the syringe was soon covered by the moving sand

The earth opened and fire spat out from the broken sod

She looked in vain for the guidance of a helping hand

Age had reduced the value of the services that were her trade

In alleyways nobody had heard the desperation in her cry

Her body scarred from customers who were to be obeyed

In the loneliness of her rented room she would be left to die

Where was the molfar’s love that she once craved

Attracted by bright lights she was drawn to a Satanic spell

Believing that by the claw that held her she would be saved

Now there was no peace in the solitude of her living hell

They laid her to rest in an unmarked grave

Younger bodies now held the men she had once known

Just as her flashing thighs once worked to enslave

Her life now over she had never known a home

Copyright: David Hopcroft November 2022


Pretty Painted Lady

Adviisory: There are some adult issues here

She stood on street corners she hung out in bars

Wore skimpy dresses and shirts without bras

Looking for custom, immune from the stares

Just doing her work and peddling her wares

They drove by in their cars leaning out of the seat

Just like an auctioneer, judging the meat

Wondering whether to splash out some cash

A quickie, then home, a bit of a dash

She’s just another bright student suffocated by fees

Offering her body but never to please

Risking her life each night as she stands

Needing to take the cash from their hands

She stands next to bright Alice a single mum

Attracting the customer with a wiggle of the bum

They stopped her benefits, never gave her any choice

It’s a nasty world when they take away your voice

Down the road is Lorraine thrown out of the door

By a husband who left her covered in gore

There is no refuge in this small country town

So she plays a school ma’am with cane and gown

That is Sue in red stockings, in debt to a loan shark

Who wished to abuse her with gropes in a park

She’s just trying to earn a living to be free

From a careless past that left a pile of debris

Then there’s June there, it’s her occupation

She’s into bondage for those with motivation

Chains or a rope, some say she’s a whore

She seems to attract her fair share from the Law

I’ve heard judgement from judges, priests and the Law

Malicious conversation with a hatred for the whore

Now somewhere I’ve read about casting the first stone

Are our lives really so different if we cut to the bone?

The celebrity wife who cheated the husband who abused

The politician who groped and his supporters were amused

The uncovered dark deeds of a priest who never atones

What a strange world that we live in when we rush to cast stones

Copyright: David Hopcroft June 2019

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Brothels are the Bricks of Religion

(A naughty wicked piece of fun about our behaviour)

Well, what would they do without a little sin here and there ?
All those priests, and parsons and ministers put out of work
Well somebody has to help them. It just wouldn’t be fair
To have ministers on the dole; someone has to give them a perk.

I mean, when all’s said and done, there’s no song and dance
If I have to sit by the box and admit that I have nothing to say
And I mutter, ‘Couldn’t even find a temptation to give me a chance,
No gambling or drinking, or even a picture to lead me astray.’

The pews would get woodworm and be covered in dust
All the bells would stay silent and the clappers go rusty.
So the priest is quietly thanking the Lord that there’s lust
And for sending enticement, long-legged and busty.

Those churches and chapels where the wicked are saved
From sex that’s seducing, and, quite frankly, exciting
Life would be rather dull if we were all well behaved
So give thanks to those ladies that men find inviting.

There’d be no need for forgiving without the transgressing
With those secret liaisons that help me to sin once a day
For without all the confessing there’d be none there for blessing
And who better to bless than those who lead us astray ?

So I’m asking for blessings for Bechan and Dilwen,
For Glenda and Glenys and all the girls at the parlour
For helping with sinning, and to show we’re forgiving
I’ve got them all on my carnival float for the next church gala.

© David Hopcroft September 2002

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