The Principal

When I was a child,
The ditty ' The Principal is your pal'
Meant that I could at least spell the word correctly.
And for the most part,
The Principal was my pal.
Someone I respected and feared,
Just a little.
Someone I wanted to impress.

Now I know, the sometimes thankless profession,
That is, being The Principal.
Ever questioned by disgruntled entitled parents,
Are the motives of  The Principal.
Who of course is out to victimise their precious little darlings.
Who does nothing to stop the bullying, apparently perpetrated on their baby,
The biggest bully in the school.
For of course despite their lack of qualifications,
The parent is by far the better pedagogue.

The school just lets the children run riot.
The school works the students too hard and has no other extracurricular activities.
Or the school is doing so many other extracurricular activities the students aren't learning.

How dare The Principal question any person's parenting skills,
Even when children arrive dirty and unfed.
Or are reticent to return home to the loving bosom of their families.
How dare The Principal suggest that a child may need educational support,
Because they have a learning challenge,
When it is clear that the child is a genius.

I have observed the school mafia at the gate weaving their intrigues.
I have seen them cut The Principal down till they leave,
Anxious and disillusioned of their noble profession.
And I have read the abusive correspondence,
Which must remain confidential,
While the parent mouths off around town.

Yes I know the disdain and even hatred poured onto a Principal.
But I have also seen the love poured onto the students,
By The Principal.

Grey Noise

Despite the fact that my students work quietly,
With occasional soft chirps of childish conversation,
Requests for particular colour pencils,
Or the eraser,
Despite this,
The cacophony of the various appliances,
Essential for the academic success of our children,
Drone and squeal on.

The soprano section is taken by the flourescent lights.
The Alto/Tenor range is monopolised by the electronic white board screen.
The fan of the air conditioning unit straddles Tenor and Bass.
They trundle along with with a rapid throbbing beat.
One two, one two, one two.
This soul-less choir sings no melody.
They are an irritating, discordant back drop,
But apparently essential,
To provide the optimal environment,
For thinking and learning. 

Yeh Right!

The Damaged Kids

The damaged kids cry and cry and cry.
You ask them to do some writing.
They cry and cry and cry.
The damaged kids cling.
They want to sit all over you.
Get jealous if you don't choose them,
For the first go.
The damaged kids are defiant.
Push the envelope,
And cross the lines in the sand.
The damaged kids lie.
They live in a fantasy of deceit,
Better than their real world.
The damaged kids are taut
Like springs,
They snap.
But as their teacher I remind myself,
The damaged kids are still kids,
Just damaged.