Prowling the corridors
he drizzled spit between buck-teeth.
He drilled through walls
for boys to hit.
He wielded a whip and a giant’s scissors
to snip hair.
And once – legend has it – he thrashed a boy to death
and stashed his corpse in a cupboard.
Divinity rippled through his gown.
His god favoured show trials
(the gulags were full).
His dandruff bombed rebels.
His nostril hairs bristled
when he sniffed out sin.
At assembly, copulating with the lectern,
he boomed through our brains
declaiming the Good News
to rows of bored faces
barbwired in uniforms.
Once he tried to fool us
blasting through the speakers
Cat Stevens’ Morning Has Broken.
‘Pull the other one,’ a boy whispered
and was zapped with a bolt from on high.
Years later – legend has it – on speech day
they wheeled him on stage to recall
breaking the backbone of…
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