Johnny hates the open air
He doesn't like the rain
Johnny's in his bedroom
On the ‘net again

They tried him with a lego set
That went in the bin
Johnny's collecting passwords
Credit cards and pins

For a lad of only twelve
He's doing rather well
He hacked into the Pentagon
And crashed the shares in Shell

The FBI got on his trail
For causing such a fuss
They wondered should we send the boy to jail
Or make him work for us

We have a lot of love to give
But have to spread it thin
For just as one is turned around
It seems two more come in

If they stay here for too long
We see their hope begin to fail
Curled up in the corner
Eyes downcast, no waggy tail

Many tears have fallen down
For those who come to us alone
But you can turn a life around
By giving one a home

Amazing it was what Grandad would do
with a drop of oil or a bit of glue
Stopped watches, sticking locks
Faulty switches, zips on breeches
Kettles that wouldn't sing
Bells that wouldn't ring
He'd say let me have a look  my dear
Touch the pencil behind his ear
Adjust his specs, stick out his tongue
And in a jiff it was mended and done
But now he's not here to save us from sin
Anything broken goes straight in the bin

We called our maths master *** happy Chappie,  Mr Chapman stank to high heaven like an ash tray and smoked like a chimney even while taking class.

We called the English teacher Jesus because he was young, bearded and wore a white suit. One of the lads flicked ink all down his back one day without him noticing as he walked up and down between the desks.

Another English teacher took it on himself to teach *** education. He advised us not to ******* the night before an exam. He doubled up as a career adviser and told everyone to go into banking or insurance.

The history master liked to nod off in lessons when he was supposed to be teaching us and we had to stay completely silent. If anyone made a noise he would yell at us, and he would sometimes hit us with a tennis shoe with a golf ball jammed in it.  He wrote Stoke City for the cup in chalk mirror writing on the sole so that it would come out on our backsides when he whacked us.

The first headmaster was nice, we liked him, he was human. But then *** took over. He tightened up the rules about school uniform, no coloured shirts, things like that, but wore luminous green socks himself, the silly *******. He gave me the slipper for sciving off an afternoon once, I hated him. I think if I'd had a gun I might have shot him.  Someone said they think he's dead now, and I thought good, I hope he died in agony ha ha.

Then there was Mr Eaton, another English master. He was one of those truly inspiring teachers whose enthusiasm for his subject was infectious.
On the day he introduced us to Chaucer's  'The Prologue '  he gave us the text and proceeded to recite from memory the whole thing.  I never forgot that.  

It was a mixed experience, Grammar School in the 1970's.

I’ve been chastised for writing poetry that was too angry.
I guess there is a lot of red in the world already,
why not spread some pleasant lilacs and a checked picnic blanket
and sit down for a while?
Why not quit thinking?
For just a moment?
Quit forcing the words to fall from our lips and
quit trying to speak over our friend,
Silence.
They have a lot to say.
Why not let them talk a minute?
Close our eyes.
Listen, smile, and nod.
No need to answer.
The quiet can tell when we’re paying attention,
and it meets us halfway with serenity.

I know all that emptiness
where the noise used to be
can get scary.
I know that all too well.
But it isn’t the Silence that tries to tear us apart.
They want to wrap us up in blankets of soft evening clouds
and remind us that not all is yet lost.

Look at me.
Let that sink in.
Not all is yet lost.

The night so long
ships calling
stay away
come

blindly pierce
clouds
anchored
at the waterline

engines throb
close, yet not
though eyes strain
soft white contains

merely
opaque outlines
shrouding
shapes familiar

eagles
materialize
singing
arise, arise

dissipating
melted wisps
ascend to kiss
returning sun

will illumination come
with fading notes
of this
fog song?

I will take the time
to gaze upon
the burnished chest
of the resident hawk
while I am waiting
for the sun to drop
and pastel
the water blue

I will patiently
wait
for the mountains
to radiate
for my heart
to steady
for the return
of peace

I will relinquish
control over
my tiny world
scattered thoughts
flying up
brushing
their curved wings
against me

I will remember
land and sea
will forever be
remaining long after
we hurt each other
long after we turn
our backs
on love

I will take the time
to be still
moon balanced
on my open palm
illusive beacon
enlighten
the coming
night

before you **** yourself,
just remember
that there are
places you have not been
and things you have not seen.
and poems to awe
art to draw
fields to walk through,
people to talk to,
music to take in,
games to win,
and books to be read.

so why,
oh why
do you wish
to be dead?