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."
The teachers in my school wouldn't publish this in the school magazine, so I thought I'd share it here.