Teachers (001 - 005)

 

001

Well, you know me, I'm a fabulous guy;

From a young age, I like to play with my books

Ignoring the girls though I wasn't that shy;

Loved chasing birds and baiting fish with hooks.

With my mates, we were fond of stoning fruits;

Raced through the bush, tripping on stems and roots;

We'd penetrate deep and start to make the hoots

Just to see we go back safely to our neighbourhoods.

But our teacher told the boys in his class:

Girls don't bite - every lad should chat with a lass.

002

The naughty ones he'd give the cutlass,

Take them out and place them in the field

And give them portions of the grass

To cut or sow seeds that fruits would yield.

Our teacher wore a belt with clasp of brass;

He was fond of wearing on each eye a glass.

He had a great voice with a tone of bass;

The music he loved I got to know was jazz.

The young man bore a very funny name;

He tried hard the wild side of us to tame.

003

He told us once of friends who went out

To a party – one pleaded with the others:

‘Please, don’t say I’m a yokel when with the crowd.’

They nodded and said they’d obey his orders.

They put on their best wear and along the street

Strutted with shoes that shone on their feet –

They were all like soldiers marching to a beat;

They got to the venue and each took his seat.

The music was good so everyone did dance;

Some outdid others and got claps of hands.

004

Then time for food came - everyone ate and drank;

The food was good and the yokel showed it

Gobbling and licking the bowl - here his rank

To other guests reveal wholly he did.

When we burst out laughing, our teacher

Went about how best to emit laughter;

He said it was wrong to reel and holler

Like a motor park tout or petty trader.

Our schooling, he said, was to round off

Our character - bad habits out we had to snuff.

005

He'd be highly disappointed when pens

Or books left owners' boxes and bags

And were found in the possession of friends

And sometimes with different names or strange tags.

Then, robbers were still tied to drums and shot;

Our teacher would start a tirade of what's the lot

Of pinching this, pinching that from Mama's pot

And thinking you're lucky not to be caught.

Desist, he'd tell us, before it turns bad;

For if shot, that'd be really really sad.

~*~