Poem By Not Long Left
i have only spoken to him twice,
and he really wasn't very nice,
complaining about me
dropping litter on the floor,
and for running down the corridor.
i have heard when he gets really angry,
his moustache wobbles and his nostils flare,
but no one ever dare,
let him know.
every morning he stands on the stage,
moaning and groaning,
whilst reading names from a page,
of boys who are in all sorts of trouble,
recruiting them for bin duty,
and cleaning up the rubble.
he is very fat and his trouses are far too short,
you can see his white ankles and grey socks,
that mrs headmaster probally bought.
his perfectly ironed shirt is so very tight,
is fit to burst and is such a sight,
worse still is his coffee breath,
which we all call the breath of death.
even the teachers fear him,
i've seen them jump out there skin,
when he begins to rant and rave,
i've heard them mutter
'he'll put us early to our grave'
when he is not dishing out detentions,
or moaaning about our 'attire'
he retreats to his musty office,
warming his feet by the electric fire.
he often sits behind his large oak desk,
and sighs a heavy sigh,
pulling at his hairy moustache,
looking like his ready to cry.
never yet have we seen it happen,
but what a day it would be,
to see that great fat whale,
blubbering with all the school to see!