Best Headmaster Poems
We were kissing behind the bike sheds
The future Mrs Bronte and I
Get yourselves up to see the head
We heard our teacher cry.
The headmaster said I'd gone too far
Practicing to save my future wife
I really shouldn't have unhooked your bra
Or given you the kiss of life.
We stood in his room in front of head
Our eyes looking down, both our faces bright red
Darren shifted nervously from side to side
Don’t worry Darren one day I’ll be your bride
I begged the head please don’t make us cool our ardour
In our biology practical we’d been told to try much harder
He said 'I was young once I’ll give you one more chance
I can’t stand in the way of a budding new romance'
Our classmates asked but we wouldn't tell
What the headmaster had to say
After school we stopped beside the wishing well
We passed along the way
We kissed each other then kissed our penny
Then watched the penny fall
The kisses we've shared over the years have been so many
We have no regrets at all.
16th May 2014
Written by Jan Allison & Darren Watson
In this year 2016 the 1st week in August, I had occasion to speak with a Christian headmaster, the spiritual aspect dominated the conversation, I expounded many
things 'that I believe only the Lord had put in my consciousness.' my understanding of the force and the 'reason' ( if that's the best description?) behind the Dunblane shootings contained in the earlier poem was one of the subjects discussed, obviously the person being a headmaster would have
aroused my memory, so much so ;I raised the question as to whether there were any former students of the school showing promise in life, and if so a positive approach to help them may be a good thing, the headmaster replied he had links 'i believe with the school, or if not with someone, who would be able to contact former pupils, as I write the headmaster is still on holiday which was about to commence a day or two from the time of our conversation,anyway instead of just waiting for the headmaster to act after a few days passed I put this search into a computer myself..' ( people doing well in life after being in Dunblane school shooting ) Andrew Murray's name appeared, It was a strange feeling to realise that among others he was who I was praying for.' I also realised he had just led out team G B..' Therefore It seems to me God is already moving him into position, this leads me by what I know of the events in his life and God, to say that he should be moved even further, into the position of leader of the U K.' It would be a change from a career
politician, and I believe would raise the stature of the Nation.'
It’s back to school, hip hip hooray
I’m so glad to be back today
I’ve got my bag and all my books
And practiced intellectual looks
Today’s first session is Miss Hughes
She’s five foot three in low heel shoes
Slim as any girl I’ve seen
She’s something like a beauty queen
The blackboard is a little high
But five foot three means ‘my o my’
She takes the chalk and there she goes
Stretching up on tippy toes
And goodness how my ardour grows
It’s stockings, not just pantyhose
I nearly see her ‘not-to-mention’
Which gets my absolute attention
She says, ‘Can you see, at the back’
I’m feeling my composure crack
I feel my heartbeat getting faster
She turns and says, ‘Oh Hi, Headmaster.’
14 September 2022
Contest: Back to School
Sponsor: Francine Roberts
Chase the leather
Lads. Keep the wickets
Lads. Love your mum
Lads. Be strong
Lads. Don’t cry
Lads. Be healthy
Lads.
Obey your headmaster
Lads. Listen to the bobby
Lads. Listen to the government
Lads. Look down the sights
Lads. Don’t reveal your position
Lads.
Be silent
Lads. Die in anonymity
Lads. Drag the dead bodies
Lads. Dig your hole
Lads. Grasp your hair
Lads. Eat the soil
Lads. Never come back
Lads.
With her very shapely thighs
And her nice firm bum
I can’t keep my eyes
Off my best mate’s mum
We could have fallen out
But we’re getting on fine
I’ve got my eyes on his mum
And he’s got his on mine
Ben’s sat in the corner
As our teacher called him bad
He’d pinched the teacher’s bottom
Which had made the teacher mad
The teacher should be flattered
And should not make Ben feel sad
But I’m a little worried
’Cause the teacher is my dad
Well, I stood up for Ben
It’s just his teenage angst
A trip to the head’s office
Was my only thanks
I stood outside the door
The sign just said ‘Headmaster’
Inside I heard my mother screaming
Faster baby, faster!
There was once an inflatable school
With a blown up boy as a fool
Then one day he came in
With a packet of pins
This ass was more like a mule
Around the playground he simply deflated
His bad antics left him elated
The headmaster had seen
This blown up boy being so mean
His anger was so underrated
To the headmasters room he was called
Knowing well he's in for a fall
You have let everybody down
Balloon boy your a clown
Disgusted, I'm darned well appalled
* This is based on the joke at the end of a programme called the *
~ Vicar of Dibley ~
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/humour-4.php
Sitting in the classroom
Staring through half-closed eyes
Your voice is surrounding me
A lover in disguise
Your fingers lace through mine
Forbidden, what a rush
And to think that just two years ago
You were nothing but a crush
Your lips on mine taste so sweet
I can never get enough
Hidden in your classroom
We speak the words of love
The school year passes by
No one suspects a thing
A crazy whirlwind romance
Too long to be a fling
You can't forget the consequence
If we were soon discovered
I can't seem to let you go
The deepest love I have uncovered
I'm content as I lie in your arms
But teacher you're so distant
"We can't do this anymore" you whisper
My life is over in an instant
Called into the headmaster
I'm sorry that I told
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
Our story now unfolds
Two long years of desire
Attraction, love and heat
Are now slowly disappearing
As I watch you from my seat
Please understand I had to tell
Because you broke my heart
Nothing else made sense you see
Love never made me smart
I watch you as you're led away
And everything goes grey
Understand I loved you
And think of you every day
We walked slowly along the busy road
My tiny hand slipped into yours
I clung tightly on to you
Whilst my sister skipped off with her friends
My brown leather satchel hung from my shoulder
We arrived at the entrance to the school
Not a word passed between us
Suddenly the silence was broken …
DING A LING A LING A LING
My class teacher Mrs Kempster stood in the doorway
She was ringing a hand bell
Even after all these years I can still picture her so vividly
She was a large hard faced woman -
The exact opposite to my petite mum
We were ushered into the classroom like little lambs
Mrs Kempster’s 10-year-old son Nigel joined us
He had earache and was not going to school that day
For some reason his mum left the classroom
She asked Nigel to keep an eye on us
Nigel started running round the room…
About a dozen of us followed, we thought this was fun!
Suddenly, Mrs Kempster burst into the classroom
She was shouting at us, absolutely furious!
Nigel sat down quickly - he had a huge smirk on his face
Only three of us were hauled up in front of her
Mrs Kempster went to her desk drawer
She pulled out a large black gym shoe
Then hit us three times on the back of our legs
Tears welled up in my eyes
I couldn’t wait to hear the bell ring
DING A LING A LING A LING
Only then I could go back to the safety of my mother’s arms
This has been very cathartic to write - is a true account of my first day at infant school. My mother complained to the headmaster … but nothing was ever done
Contest – For whom the Bell Tolls – Sponsor Debbie Guzzie
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They sit gossiping
around on chairs
Under shady walnut
Sh! Sh! Backbiting!
Abusing! Loud laughing…
having fun!
A proud young man
newly appointed
Abused his pupils in
anger
When I in innocence
interrupted him
And reminded of his
class,
For the poor pupils I saw
were waiting
Opening their books on
their bags.
Another one, a Master, I
saw was pulling his
inferior female
colleague’s arm
And dragging her in…!
A lecturer kissing his girl
students on cheeks,
whispering in their ears,
and
embracing…!
A broad shouldered tall
teacher would kiss and
bite
The plum-cheeks of my
fair-looking class-
fellows,
One among now is a KPS
officer!
An old lame teacher,
A drinker, abused the
pupils all the time,
Often sitting cross-
legged, lighting a cigar.
O! Let’s stop it here…
but a sick Sikh
headmaster
Now I see had been
highly communal
Would beat at prayer-
time
The poor pupils
sweating in sun,
Without seeing the
wooden-slates
And beating with willow-
twigs their soft thighs.
Thanks to the highly
disciplined modern
schools
In private sector
But the curriculum be
child centered
And not fatiguing and
boring.
O O! Recently I have
heard of the teachers
Who gave me a
humiliating nickname,
One is shouting and
hurling stones at people,
Another is dumbfounded,
hardly talking to any one.
Whom have you hired
teachers...?
Drivers and Boucher—
I wonder and I ponder…
But, let I at least protest.
All the teachers were basically horrible,
each could be placed on sliding scale of
horribleness….thus;
1. (the worst) Complete ****
2. Largely a ****.. with a degree of reserve
3. ****
4. Headmaster’s toady prone to outbursts
5. Pathetic but lacking conscience
6. Searching for a personality
7. Lost…smiles occasionally
8. Dominated by all other teachers (easy to mimic)
9. A mess
10. Ineffectual (but sharp dresser, and most likely to become future Headmaster).
Only we, the pupils were perfect and yet to enter the land of shopping, mortgages, menstruation and Mondays.
Is this the school of metaphysics,
The nullifier of ontology?
The diluter of pluralism,
The supporter of monotony?
A description of the virtues,
Depends on the physical existing;
Objects, people, colours and tastes,
Not a divine attributes listing.
What you teach in assembly,
Influences the life of every school child;
A glance, a look, a gesture, a stare,
Beckons mental illness beguiled.
All beliefs should be acceptable,
But humanistic values should centre,
For an understanding environment,
To cherish the individual’s banter.
There’s really not so many ways of life,
All can be categorised to make a few,
So that each family can be understood,
Whether loved, or by the child reacted to.
All too often I just so wanted, needed,
My headmaster to know the poems in my head,
Every night, just so that I could cope with life,
So that he would have good orchestrations.
It only takes a moment to slyly dismiss,
A pupil who’s from atheism’s stance,
But a legislation on school assembly,
Would give many kids a chance.
It happens when you’re debilitated, laid-up, sick;
random images, memories
coalesce within the unoccupied reason of your mind.
Maybe you have a memory, standing on a hill, chilled,
watching the final high school football game of the season.
Maybe you are a fictional character writing about mixed emotions:
your youth transcending societal doubt.
You could be a real person
fictionalizing a pubescent experience
upon a million future pages
describing insecurity at a time of social transition.
Agerstown Pennsylvania wasn’t a bad place to live,
but Pencey was a haven of unforgiving classmates.
Absent mindedness was no excuse
and a lack of self-discipline was grounds for expulsion.
The History instructor was an engaging and affable fellow,
like instructors are.
He was concerned about you,
that instructor that spoke with you
and was aware of the student unable to apply his self
in the presence of teenage shenanigans and impulsive drama.
It seems you were a victim
or a misapprehension of circumstance.
The lack of women at Pencey Prep School was obvious.
The slovenly plain and fidgeting daughter of the headmaster drew your eye.
A growing libido and an ailing fantasy life is no way to grow up.
And while such things make for an interesting read,
they are thin of poetry, romance, and sexual deeds.
Upon the hill pondering flashes of memory,
physical youth seems pleasurable compared to a bleak, unknowable future.
Some good-byes are worth waiting for, some are not.
We always seem to remember bad good-byes.
It is remembering what could-have-been
that keeps us recounting such random and undesired images.
We have a weird teacher in our school
everybody knows he is a fool
He doesn't know to teach
neither he knows to preach
His handwriting we can’t follow
But for his beard his face would be hollow
He does everything wrong
and can never sing a song
He loves to eat fish
but never bothers to wash his dish
He rarely takes a bath
and really hates to teach math
Norway and UK are his favourite places
and in school he pulls faces
His car has a bizarre style
It spews smoke and leaks oil
He deserves a scolding from the headmaster
So that he mends his ways and learns faster
I hope he changes someday
I can only predict and not say !
Benedict (8 years)
I'v had so many teachers from whom
i'm blessed
I cannot say a human is my best
But one i really must showcase
My teacher makes me feel like i'm
reserving my best
Encourages me to pull out that part i
hide deep down
Unknown to most he can be a clown
Although he seems very much like a
stern headmaster
With his trousers held up on his belly
And his outrageously big glasses
I dread the day we'll part
For this teacher there will always be a
place in my heart.
I went to two schools in reality,
But only had one in my mind,
A school that assimilated and understood,
A school that would not drive me blind.
Daniels nursery was the best,
In all ways apart from one,
Because it accepted my difference,
Respected my pensive hum.
But they didn’t provide facilities,
For my disability, loud and many times proud;
Sometimes I needed just to talk it over,
‘Cos my disability was not a shroud.
But I came top in both alphabet and numbers,
The private Edinburgh school was not above me,
And I managed to carve some friendships,
That were a delight to see.
But since they didn’t provide facilities,
It was decided I would leave for another,
For my future primary education,
Where my disability would not be such my master.
So I moved to a special school, Graysmill,
Which asserted my normality fine,
But they saw my clever mind as my parents credibility,
And so for Daniels I would pine.
I felt so much loved by Daniels headmaster,
Who took me aside initially and asked,
If I was happy and alright inside,
And so my reality I never masked.
I questioned him, “Do I have to believe in god?”
And he replied lovingly and tenderly,
“No Rhoda, you don’t have to believe in god,”
So I was relieved and had hope for future longevity.
So in daily assembly when I just thought my own thoughts,
Contemplated and pondered quietly to myself,
He smiled at me once ‘cos he knew what I was doing,
That bold, quick-witted atheistic elf.
But when I got to Graysmill as a new pupil,
They thought their framework for me was the best,
And tried to beget me with Christianity,
Ramifying my parents traditional morality chest.
After about eight months of hardship,
I realised they did not understand as well,
My real disability and proposition,
Which would take them some way further.
They were so uncaring at times,
Forceful, heartless and cold,
Lacking the relationships,
Upon which I could hold.
They assumed I'd not liked Daniels,
And empathised with me about it,
Insisted I'd not taken to integration,
That along side me they did sit.
There should’ve been that middle ground,
That state school with creative gumption,
So that my worldview was never found,
Lacking, with myself in need of instruction.