The Master

King Edward VI Grammar School, Stafford. My old school.
We were just a bunch of teenage boys
Who’d grown up playing with Dinky toys
Who now sat in this Master’s class
Exams upcoming we had to pass.

With Fowler’s Usage in his hand
He strode amongst our hapless band
And taught us all of composition
And how to use a preposition.

He always wore a teacher’s gown
That seemed to match his careworn frown
With his long chin we called him Drac
While flirting ink-bombs at his back.

His language classes were of renown
And in them none would play the clown
He made it ever seem such fun
Including always everyone.

He also taught us English Lit
The class that was my favourite bit
Though as most favoured Shakespearean pickings
My personal choice was always Dickens.

While Edward Lear wrote tales of Nonsense
Charles Dickens had a social conscience
Writing tales of deprivation
Still he entertained the nation.

Our Master taught me all of this
And lost in books I am in bliss
And I thank Tom Davis for it was he
Who opened my eyes and set me free.

©Joe Wilson – The Master 2014

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