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I am a great admirer of English poetry from the time of Chaucer up until the middle of the twentieth century when it appeared to lose its way. I love all aspects of this planet but are sometimes sad when I think of what we are doing to it.

Saturday 1 December 2018

In School

A smell of fresh ink
and I instantly think
of warm days in school:
Those dim leaden skies,
that buzz of small flies;
I hear children’s yells in school.

A harsh bell rings out,
an eager loud shout
and dinner ends in school.
“Now turn to page Four.”
- But Euclid I abhor!
But this is life, in school.

A quick glance to my right
- Yes, she’s still there all right.
But she sees me not, in school.
If I had that new bike
perhaps me she’d like:
But I’m just weak weed, in school.

It’s biology now
and our determined vow
is not to snigger in school.
But with “womb”and “sperm”
It’s not like “The Worm”!
(And some girls still blush in school.)

And then the bell rings
and my tired hand sings:
No more writing in school!
And then out we pour;
A big crush at the door
and we swear – which we don’t do in school.

And as on the loud bus we go
we slander teachers we know
and swop our adventures in school:
“We had fun with those cows
I had my hand down her blouse!”
Yes, there’s lots of excitement in school.

But now there’s homework for me
Instead of TV
For I must hand it over in school.
Then it’s out we go;
Follow females we know
and forget all our troubles in school.

But it all slips away
with a new-minted day
and it’s back to the textbooks in school.
Cornflakes and a fuss;
Chase after the bus
and then dodge all those prefects in school.

Yes, it all sweeps back like a wave
as I wander on to my grave.
The tumult, the joy in school.
And as I work amidst grime
I remember the time
when the world was clean – in school

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