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OUR SCHOOL
Our school is so old,
It’s like a sleeping monster
Who, one day, will get so hungry,
It’ll gobble all us kids up
And we’ll never be seen again.
‘I can’t believe that!’ my Mum says.
But, then, my Mum has never heard how
it bangs its doors,
Lets the wind whistle through its glass teeth,
Shakes all its pipes in the cloakroom
And groans
When you’re in there on your own.
‘Wahhhh!’ it goes,
So that every centimetre of your body
Turns icy, bitter cold.
‘Who’s there?’ you whisper,
The hairs on the back of your neck bristling
Like a porcupine’s quills.
‘Wahhhh!’ the sleeping monster moans,
Waking up and turning over,
Just as you slide out of the door,
With your jeans around your ankles.
Copyright GWEN GRANT
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