Top Of The Form
So, Michael, you have been promoted,
Prefect of the House, it seems:
A poison pill so candy-coated
It seems beyond your wildest dreams –
At last you get to wear a blazer,
Or failing that, to wield a taser.
All of us are shocked to hear that
You’ll be earning far less tuck,
Except the bullies (and I fear that
They won’t give a flying fuck) –
But now you’ll offer them detention
Or other pains too grim to mention.
You seem so fragile, dear young chap,
As if the Head had ticked you off:
You squirming in a ringworm cap
While he wears waistcoats like a toff –
He’ll make you pay some weird allegiance
In the playground’s nether regions.
Govey (may I?) you’re a swot,
And that’s no insult, rest assured.
You’ve may have lost the old school plot,
But all the same, you have endured –
In fifty years, when teachers curse,
They’ll call it goving. Could be worse.
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