If I were firece and bald and short of breath
I'd be the headmaster of a secondary school.

A spotted face boy cries "fight, fight, fight!"
A scrap has begun outside the school.
Greasy adolescents hurry to the scene
To find a boy - bloodied - face down in the gravel.
Instead of showing sympathy,
they portray their callous nature.
The mob-mentality reigns supreme
As he is mocked and jeered by ***** fingers
Of adolescent monkeys.

Meanwhile, in the corridors of the school
A sea of gray sways, as agitated 6th years
Barge their way through piles and piles
Of nervous first years.

Sweaty fingers clutch chewed-on pens,
Taking down their futures from the board.
The vacant stare of the class fool is aimed toward
The blank, unpainted walls.
Were they ever painted?
Or did god create them bland?

The footworn halls of our totalitarian dictatorship
Are kept active only by the zealous actions of our 'noble' teachers.
Every morning they arrive at a job they resent,
And see teachers whose eyes mirror their despair,
Then they feign a smile and proceed
With the monotonous task of teaching
Brain-dead, narcissistic, trogleydtes.
Exciting.

"All in all we're all just bricks in the wall."

Look in the mirror
And realise
You're staring into
Someone else's eyes.

One inane cyst on the heel of this once beautiful planet,
Us parasitic worms slowly deflate our ballon of necessity; oblivious to the destruction.
In our absence this terrible moth could cacoon and metamorphose
Into a wonderful creature, and return to how it once was.