Until the outlaws struck.
No horses, of course, just ‘clip-clop’ noises.
So there was I, my cloak tossed back,
Duelling with Robin Hood;
While Janek – I didn’t know it then –
Was guarding me more than he should.
Perhaps there’s nothing in the Polish language for ‘Aaargh!’
Guards, you see, are meant to fight
For a little while, then lose.
Get captured, killed or wounded,
Whatever way they choose.
Usually our plays had guns in them, only this time Miss Hodge said she was sick of guns.
But Janek wasn’t having that,
He wouldn’t even defend;
And the way he was generally carrying on,
The play would never end.
That was the second mistake we made: it ended all right.
And still the worst was yet to come
In Robin Hood’s ordeal:
Not only wouldn’t Janek die,
He was sword-fighting for real!
The Merrie Men were looking less merry by the minute.
Will Scarlett’s hand was stinging
From the blows that Janek smote,
And Friar Tuck was thankful
For that cushion up his coat.
Alan-a-Dale and Little John were already behind the curtain.
We did our best to stop him;
Tried ‘whispering’ in his ear;
But he was shouting foreign words,
We couldn’t make him hear.
I could see then how Poland knocked us out of the World Cup.
The play was going haywire now,
The audience could tell.
When some of the guards tried changing sides,
Janek polished them off as well.
‘Pole-ished’ – get it? Keith thought of that on the way home.
Then, having done for the outlaws,
He shoved me out of the way
And had a go at Robin Hood.
That wasn’t part of the play!
In my opinion, Miss Hodge should have stopped it then.
Now Kevin had this plastic sword
(The play was his idea)
And being who he was, of course,
Was supposed to show no fear.
I was showing fear, and Janek was on my side.
But once the sword was broke in half,
And minus his Merrie Men,
Robin Hood dropped the other half
And surrendered there and then.
Then Miss Hodge stopped it, which I thought was a bit late.
Anyway, that was the end of that.
The audience gave us a clap.
Me and Roy took the curtain down
And joined the rush for the tap.
It’s thirsty work, acting; and we had our moustaches to wash off.
Roy also fetched the first-aid box,
Put a plaster on his shin,
And offered to settle Kevin’s nerves
With a junior aspirin.
Kevin was worried what his mum was going to say about the sword.
Janek, meanwhile, was prowling round
With his sword still in his hand;
Suspecting another ambush, perhaps,
From another outlaw band.
Miss Hodge said he reminded her ofErrol Flynn, whoever he was.
Keith said, let’s wait for the Christmas play
And have Janek in again.
He’d make mincemeat of the shepherds,
And slaughter the Three Wise Men.
He’d be worse than Herod, Keith said.
But I’m about fed up with plays;
Football’s a better bet.
Now we’ve got this match against Class 4
And we’ve never beaten them yet.
You can probably guess what was in my mind; Roy could.
So tomorrow Janek brings his kit
(The kick-off’ half-past three);
And we’ll play him in the forward line:
He’s a striker… obviously.
Do a Project
Do a project on dinosaurs.
Do a project on sport.
Do a project on the Empire State Building,
The Eiffel Tower,
The Blackpool Tower,
The top of a bus.
Ride a project on horses.
Suck a project on sweets.
Play a project on the piano.
Chop a project on trees
Down.
Write a project on paper,
A plaster cast,
The back of an envelope,
The head of a pin.
Write a project on the Great Wall of China,
Hadrian’s Wall,
The playground wall,
Mrs Wall.
Do a project in pencil,
In ink,
In half an hour,
In bed,
Instead
of something else,
In verse,
Or worse;
Do a project in playtime.
Do a project on your hands and knees,
Your head,
With one arm tied behind you.
Do a project wearing handcuffs,
In a steel coffin,
Eighty feet down
At the bottom of the Hudson River
(Which ideally should be frozen over),
On Houdini.
Forget a project on Memory;
And refuse one on Obedience.
Lost
Dear Mrs Butler, this is just a note
About our Raymond’s coat
Which he came home without last night,
So I thought I’d better write.
He was minus his scarf as well, I regret
To say; and his grandma is most upset
As she knitted it and it’s pure
Wool. You’ll appreciate her feelings, I’m sure.
Also, his swimming towel has gone
Out of his PE bag, he says, and one
Of his socks, too – it’s purplish and green
With a darn in the heel. His sister Jean
Has a pair very similar. And while
I remember, is there news yet of those fairisle
Gloves which Raymond lost that time
After the visit to the pantomime?
Well, I think that’s all. I will close now,
Best wishes, yours sincerely, Maureen Howe
(Mrs). P.S. I did once write before
About his father’s hat that Raymond wore
In the school play and later could not find,
But got no reply. Still, never mind,
Raymond tells me now he might have lost the note,
Or left it in the pocket of his coat.
School is Great
When I’m at home, I just can’t wait
To get to school – I think it’s great!
Assemblies I could do without,
But I love it, giving hymn-books out.
Writing’s fun, when you try each letter,
But sharpening the pencils first – that’s better!
Football leaves me with the stitch,
But I’d miss my playtime to mark the pitch.
Cooking cakes gives you a thrill,
But cleaning the bowl out’s better still.
Story’s nice at the end of the day,
But I’d rather empty the rubbish away.
Yes, school’s great – though I’ll tell you what:
Going-home-time beats the lot!
Now the Day is Over
Now the day is over
‘I won six marbles from Glen;
I’m going to play him again!’
Night is drawing nigh
‘My boy-friend’s either Jeremy Coathe
Or Kevin Jukes – or both!’
Shadows of the evening
‘I’ve gone and lost the back-door k
ey;
Mother’ll murder me!’
Steal across the sky.
A – men.
‘Come on, Glen;
I’ll play you again!’
HOME TIME
Balls on the Roof
The caretaker went on the roof today,
The first time for years.
He put his ladder against the wall
And cleared the guttering.
Some of the children stayed to watch;
It was after school.
He threw the balls down that he found
And they caught them.
That guttering was a graveyard for balls.
Balls with moss on them.
Balls you couldn’t even buy any more.
Balls too old to bounce.
There was a sorbo ball with R.T. on it,
Not Russell Tucker’s –
Raymond Tate’s – he’d left – ages ago!
Gone to the Comp.
There was a ball so perished and worn,
It was like Aero.
I could’ve kicked that up,the caretaker said,
When I was a boy.
The children studied each relic as it came down,
But made no notes.
They said, we’re taking that mossed-up one
For the Nature Table.
The caretaker cleared the guttering.
He put his ladder away.
And the children kicked the least un-bouncy ball
In the empty playground.
The Challenge
My dad can fight your dad.
You must be mad!
My mum can fight your mum.
No chance, chum.
My brother can fight your brother.
Pull the other!
My gran can fight your gran.
You’re joking, man!
My cat can fight your cat.
Don’t bet on that.
And I can fight you
… Toodle-oo!
Our Mother
Our mother is a detective.
She is a great finder of clues.
She found the mud and grass on our shoes,
When we were told not to go in the park –
Because it would be getting dark –
But come straight home.
She found the jam on our thumbs,
And in our beds the tiniest crumbs
From the cakes we said we had not eaten.
When we blamed the cat for breaking the fruit bowl –
Because we did not want any fuss –
She knew it was us.
Haircut
I hate having my hair cut;
And when it’s done,
I hate going to school next day
And being told about it –
By everyone.
‘Oh, you’ve had your hair cut,’ they say.
‘Oh, you should wear a hat!’
‘Oh, you’ve had a bare-cut,’ they say.
And silly things like that.
I can stand having my hair cut,
Though I’d rather let it grow.
What I can’t stand
Is being told I’ve had it cut –
As if I didn’t know!
Is That Your Apple?
Is that your apple?
What a charming sight!
I would be your best friend
For a little bite.
We could play at my house.
You could stay to tea.
We could get my train-set out.
We could watch TV.
We could go up to the park.
We could sail my yacht.
We could… Oh, you greedy pig,
You’ve gone and ate the lot.
Scabs
The scab on Jean’s knee
Is geographical.
Bexhill-on-Sea:
Tripped up on school trip.
The scab on Henry’s knee
Is historical.
Oldest scab in Class Three:
Second year sack race.
The scab on Paul’s knee
Is pugilistical.
Fighting Clive Key:
He got a cut lip.
The scab on Sally’s knee
Is psychological.
Hurts if she does PE:
Painless at playtime.
The scab on Brian’s knee
Is bibliographical.
Fooling around in library:
Banged into bookcase.
The scabs on the twins’ knees
Are identical.
Likewise the remedies:
Hankies and spit.
The scab on Eric’s knee
Is economical.
£2.50:
Second-hand skates.
The scab on Debby’s knee
Is diabolical.
Nothing to see:
Hurts like the devil.
Bedtime
When I go upstairs to bed,
I usually give a loud cough.
This is to scare The Monster off.
When I come to my room,
I usually slam the door right back.
This is to squash The Man in Black
Who sometimes hides there.
Nor do I walk to the bed,
But usually run and jump instead.
This is to stop The Hand –
Which is under there all right –
From grabbing my ankles.
The End
Please Mrs Butler Page 3
