Customs Men

Soldier, sailors, imperial rabble, even pensioners
Can't hold a candle to our Peace Keepers who yammer
"Awww Jeezis" and "Don't go nowhere" as they swing
Heavy axes though azure frontiers.

Pipes between teeth, knives in hand, happy as can be,
They set out with dogs tugging on leashes,
In search of an evening's evil fun, darkness
Drooling through the woods as if from a cow's maw.

They hassle female fauns,
Round up Fausts and Devils, saying
"None of that, fellas! Drop them bags!"

And when his highness the Customs Man happens
Upon young boys, he exacts more than a dutiful grope.
Hell for Delinquents pressed by his palm!