He'll get down and nuzzle
While he kneads with helping hand
On a pair, a paragon of what's right.
Foley eyes kids in D.C.,
Emails them from his lair.
His cell lights up; teen-talkin', Mark, ain't right.

He'll just call up a page
Or blow his mind with an IM:
"Can I rub ya?! oh, baby,
Such a state I'm in!"

When it springs up, he will call,
Enthralled at the thought of small
Boys being where, yeah, yeah, yeah,
He wants to spend.

He's the guy who loves youth.
His name's Mark, and he's endowed.
He exhorts short kids to give him a blow.

Seek some head from fledglings
Then'd crawl to where they're prowed,
And poon-like is the back-door notch he adores.

Enthralled by underage
Boys, he flirts with them in IM:
"Can I rub ya, oh, baby.
Do you use the gym?"

Den and his ilk are "appalled."
All protesteth that they are galled.
They were aware yeah, yeah, yeah.

Hey, ain't it bad to know you've got such a "friend"?
The creep wants you in his fold.
He'll flirt you, then try to squirt you.
He'll take your hole if you let him--
Watch out and don't you let him.

He'll call when hormones rage
In non-Shakespearean iambs:
"Can I rub ya baby?! Such a state I'm in!"

Winter discontent: it falls
Fallstaffian Den's "appalled."
And Mark is where?
Oh, he's ill--
Off the deep end.
Because he'd bend
His tainted elbow. Didn't intend
Plaints: his wood to blow. He'll say "Amen."
Shift blame to Den.