Early this morning, as I walking down to my lesson
I passed my Irish colleague returning from a Shakespearean session
Perhaps still thinking about the Bard, the King and the fool
As he gingerly traversed the minefield that is Simba School.
Oh! Mines and missiles inundate this scholastic terrain
And on one’s agility do place much physical strain
For teachers must side-step discarded bags and litter
Or the ballistic speed of some gossip-crazed critter.
Such is the volatility and unpredictability on this battleground
That careless missilery does ruthlessly abound
Ready for another, untimed, dubious, un-aimed at launch
That might sock our Economist upon his paunch.
Of course, primitive methods, such as those David used
Might upon our historian or accountant be abused
As a bag-load of books might catapult through the air
And catch you on the forehead, full and square.
It’s a battleground, this, the halls of Simba School
Where “badly-uniformed” guerillas vociferously rule!
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