Corporation bus, mud coloured beast
eased over cobbles.
Tram lines torn up,
pneumatic tyres of “a new age of reason”
hissed through unseasonable east wind.
Jump off, take the short cut.
Was i born to this rut?
Don’t be a fool get there on time,
every single morning,
don’t miss, it’s a sin.
Skool skool skool.
Stand still, stand in line, can’t win.
Must follow their rules
Dinner’s dodgy food in grim dining room
Stodgy chocolate pud’s luminous pink sauce
Spelling test came ever closer,
when her with trap door mouth
cast iron attitude, brown sensible shoes,
bun in her hair, held the gun of her moods to our heads,
filled us with fear, cowed as the moment drew near.
Silence, pin drop, nothing could be said.
Eyes averted. “ To the front,” she screamed.
Perspiration streamed like a tidal sea.
I knew the language but how it sounds
is not how it is spelt, but how to tell,
try to explain, pray for the bell.
Rain on window washed hope away.
Voice without pity,
“Come on, can’t wait forever.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. Why can’t you be clever?
(Now there was a riddle.)
Bring me the long cane wretched little piddle of a boy.”
The pain was there for the rest of the day,
and my Dad said I deserved it,
“Life’s not all about play.”
He always was a bit of a sadist as well as a fool.
Nothing he could do when he was at skool.