.

The New Headmasters

As I sat, that afternoon, upon his knee
While he read a “witty” book and I faux-laughed
I’m afraid, aged eight, I didn’t really see
What was happening: I now feel rather daft.
But “frottage,” back in Nineteen Eighty-Nine,
In an England run by toffs from public schools,
Such as Geoffrey Howe and Michael Heseltine,
Was, somehow, just about within the rules,
And in those public schools some men liked feeling,
Or caning boys’ bare, bottoms: “It’s tradition!”
“It makes them men! No knighthood without kneeling!”
So parents overlooked their boys’ perdition.

Fast-forward now to Twenty-Twenty Five
And the gentry, in Westminster, sit no more.
Influential heads are very much alive
But they’re women so they’re “caring” to the core,
Such that schoolboys may not be so much as touched,
“Ban running?” “Yes! The lad might trip and fall!”
A child, like a diamond’s, tightly clutched,
So he can’t be hurt, not even by a ball,
But the problem is he so “cannot be hurt”
That you may not even tell him he’s mistaken.
If he says he is a pig and rolls in dirt
Then he’s right and he might fear becoming bacon.

There’s no fondling in these schools, the cane’s long-banned,
But the teachers, most are women, will accept
When frightened, pining for a gentle hand
Or listening ear, a girl, emotions wrecked
On unexpected shards of dolomite,
As it hits her she must leave behind her toys,
Feels something in her life is not quite right . . .
Maybe she’s in fact one of the boys?
And here, perhaps, the fields of Eton play,
But in reverse; no birching, belt or sermon.
The adults just do as she says, obey;
Make her the grown-up, her life to determine.

As I sat, that afternoon, upon his knee
While he read a “witty” book and I faux-laughed
I’m afraid, aged eight, I didn’t really see
What would happen and how it was so daft
To think that one day, when I’m forty-four,
It could be any better than that time:
Yes, boys were groped or beaten to the floor,
And few of us would think to call it “crime,”
But now these girls, wrecked on these splintered rocks,
Lost life-boats smashing into some dark isle,
Have been given means their puberty to block,
Which has left them brittle-boned and infertile.

And some have had their breasts both cut away
And only then have seen they were confused.
Flogging, touching or this, either way,
Have they not both been horribly abused?
By adults whom you’d think that they could trust?
Whether sadists in black gowns who make boys cry?
And master-pederasts, concealing lust?
Or those who ask how girls “identify”?
Even though they’re far too young to even start
To mull on what they are and who they’ll be,
Such that they could rip their bodies clean apart?
Were we safer on those old headmasters’ knees?

.

.

Lucius Falkland is the nom de plume of a writer and academic originally from London. His first poetry collection, The Evening The Times Newspaper Turned Into Jane Eyre, was published with Exeter House Publishing in 2025.


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2 Responses

  1. Mark Stellinga

    If the author of this very disturbing piece went through the same treachery as what children are being subjected to by today’s pederasts, I can easily understand his choice to pen and post it anonymously. I hope, for his sake, that’s not the case… extremely moving, Lucius (?).

    Reply
  2. Joseph S. Salemi

    In Europe people noticed that many Englishmen preferred a somewhat violent and hard-hitting sex, which the French called “le vice anglais.” It was often attributed to the no-nonsense whippings (with a rough birch rod) that were administered to boys as punishment in the public schools. The poet Swinburne’s fascination with S&M was probably doe to this practice (see his great poem “Our Lady of Pain”).

    There were many absurd things in the English public schools. The fanatical obsession with forcing every single boy to take part in sports was one of them, and shy and bookish students went through the torment of pain and injury. You could get “six of the best” from a prefect if you missed some goddamned footer practice. Six of the best were six harsh blows with a birch rod on your buttocks, struck against a chalk line drawn on the seat of your pants. If you tried to complain, you got “eight of the best.” If you screamed or wept, the prefect would say “You have made me lose count. We must begin again.”

    Yes, it was tough and unfair, and the sexual frottage was definitely present. But what is happening today, with these young girls being propagandized to take puberty blockers and get transition surgery, is truly sickening.

    If “Lucius Falkland” is a pseudonym, then what does that tell you about the collapse of freedom of speech and thought in the United Kingdom? The land that we once called the Mother of Parliaments has now become a GULAG.

    Reply

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