Detention

 

Detention

 

If you wish, you can grasp it,

it is, after all, entirely understandable,

since the wizards in their wisdom,

pointed convex lenses at the sky,

and a proclamation, raised high,

claims we are tossed back to 1975,

or somewhere give or take a chance,

like thar last dance in Mama Mia,

they’re wanting anywhere but here.

 

Who’s this? Head on desk,

avoiding eye contact, here’s him

that hands slips to those who sin,

like parking tickets - they fill them in,

when banged up in detention.

 

Of course, it’s well known hereabouts,

after his issued screams and shouts

have shrieked final echoes,

he slopes off to get his head down,

keeps silent class with manly scowl,

while filling in the spreadsheets.

 

But, you know, they swallowed rats

who gnaw and gnaw at empty bellies,

bring lack of sleep and counting sheep,

come to lessons, try to sleep,

my, my, someone fetch a priest.

 

Donning his pleasant crescent black-cap,

lent by bleaters from tall white towers,

with an edict to prune the wildflowers

bring order to the house,

bound for chair, grim fiend with mouse

and knitted brows of fury:

he’ll bring you verdicts, judge and jury.