A map of every country known,
With not a foot to call his own.
A list of folks that kicked a dust
On this poor globe, from Ptol. the First;
He hopes,-- indeed it is but fair,--
Some day to get a corner there.
A group of all the British kings,
Fair emblem! on a packthread swings.
The Fathers, ranged in goodly row,
A decent, venerable show,
Writ a great while ago, they tell us,
And many an inch o'ertop their fellows.
A Juvenal to hunt for mottos;
And Ovid's tales of nymphs and grottos.
The meek-robed lawyers all in white;
Pure as the lamb,-- at least, to sight.
A shelf of bottles, jar and phial,
By which the rogues he can defy all,--
All filled with lightning keen and genuine, 20 And many a little imp he'll pen you in;
Which, like Le Sage's sprite, let out,
Among the neighbours makes a rout;
Brings down the lightning on their houses,
And kills their geese, and frights their spouses.
A rare thermometer, by which
He settles, to the nicest pitch,
The just degrees of heat, to raise
Sermons, or politics, or plays.
Papers and books, a strange mixed olio,
From shilling touch to pompous folio;
Answer, remark, reply, rejoinder,
Fresh from the mint, all stamped and coined here;
Like new-made glass, set by to cool,
Before it bears the workman's tool.
A blotted proof-sheet, wet from Bowling.
--'How can a man his anger hold in?'--
Forgotten rimes, and college themes,
Worm-eaten plans, and embryo schemes;--
A mass of heterogeneous matter,
A chaos dark, no land nor water;--
New books, like new-born infants, stand,
Waiting the printer's clothing hand;--
Others, a mottly ragged brood,
Their limbs unfashioned all, and rude,
Like Cadmus' half-formed men appear;
One rears a helm, one lifts a spear,
And feet were lopped and fingers torn
Before their fellow limbs were born;
A leg began to kick and sprawl
Before the head was seen at all,
Which quiet as a mushroom lay
Till crumbling hillocks gave it way;
And all, like controversial writing,
Were born with teeth, and sprung up fighting.

'But what is this,' I hear you cry,
'Which saucily provokes my eye?'--
A thing unknown, without a name,
Born of the air and doomed to flame.

School's coming to an end,
and it's GCSE's,
using all my expertise gained through-out the school years,
It could all end in tears.
Teachers say it's a big deal,
that's what they convey,
it is for them, anyway.

The last few weeks of term and you hand in your coursework,
that was fine, I wish I could shirk the exams,
not very good at revising,
but our teachers are advising us to watch GCSE Bitesize,
but it doesn't really cover what we've learned,
which is a bit of a concern.

We all cram into the exam hall,
it's a bit last minute,
but I'm trying to recall my revision notes.

An Inspector Calls by J.B Priestley,
something's stirring,
Arthur Birling,
a public scandal is too much to handle,
Eva Smith,
Eric and Gerald both had affairs,
but the latter actually cared.
That's a start, I guess.

The exam invigilator sets the clocks,
and permits one hour and forty-five minutes.
The Science exams are multiple-choice,
Biology is fine, but Physics and Chemistry haunt me.

Geography next,
tectonic plates,
and the traits of EDC's,
as well as Less Economically Developed Countries.

That's all over,
we await our mark,
the best part is still to come,
everyone meeting down the park,
and that too me is the abiding memory of my school days,
one last time we're all together in glorious weather,
before going our separate ways.