05-17-2011, 05:26 PM
This poem is a parody of this one by Philip Larkin: The School In August
The cloakroom now is being stripped,
the pegs unburdened, one by one,
while nice parents of lucky girls
arrive to claim their errant young.
As plastic angels guard the hall
the students dress, the last bell rung.
Who stole Madeleine’s brassiere
and sneezed all over it?
Who pillow fought the last night here
while Mr. Larkin dipped his pen?
And who amongst them dared to leer
at their mistress’ rose bush?
The croquet hoops are locked away,
the gardener puts on his shirt,
and as he calmly wipes his brow
last year’s prefect pulls up her skirt.
Observing then the sky darken,
she mourns the loss of breasts once pert.
The cloakroom now is being stripped,
the pegs unburdened, one by one,
while nice parents of lucky girls
arrive to claim their errant young.
As plastic angels guard the hall
the students dress, the last bell rung.
Who stole Madeleine’s brassiere
and sneezed all over it?
Who pillow fought the last night here
while Mr. Larkin dipped his pen?
And who amongst them dared to leer
at their mistress’ rose bush?
The croquet hoops are locked away,
the gardener puts on his shirt,
and as he calmly wipes his brow
last year’s prefect pulls up her skirt.
Observing then the sky darken,
she mourns the loss of breasts once pert.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe