I have the squawk of the devil,
I have academy flu.
Why are the playing-fields level?
Atishoo. My beak's turning blue.
Please keep your paws off my pinions;
Please do not rattle my cage –
If a school wants to be a St. Trinian's,
Then let it. New Labour. New Age.
Bring back the stick. Or the carrot –
Let a thousand academies bloom.
I may sound as sick as a parrot,
But I'm still a game bird. Mind my plume.
Some like to dress up in leather;
Some like the sniff of a church.
We are all of a different feather;
We all need a separate perch.
Some of us cry 'Pretty Polly!';
Some of us, 'Pieces of Eight!' –
What? Learn the same lessons? What folly!
Must we all share a similar fate?
I repeat. I repeat. Mind this sniffle.
Give every school a new voice.
Let them drown in fresh paper and piffle,
Since there isn't a choice left, but choice.