A terrifying teacher receives a terrible comeuppance |
Oh what a sorry lot in life To be a teacher. All that strife, Guffawing, talking, all that noise (And girls are just as bad as boys). So while poor teachers fret in vain And try their hardest to explain About all sorts of things: equations; Languages of all persuasions; Arts and music; science - we Don’t get just one of them, there’s three; But chemistry’s a bitter chore, Biology a dreadful bore, And they might be the best ones - physics Is like reading hieroglyphics. So little wonder then at all That kids just want to have a ball And never bother thinking just How awfully difficult it must Be to walk through that classroom door And come back the next day for more. But this is not a lecture I Assure you. Let me tell you why: I’m not one tiny little bit Ashamed to openly admit That I was once a horrid boy Who used to heartily enjoy His time as a precocious brat - And there is nothing wrong with that! Being wicked, vile and rotten Is not easily forgotten. For we all know what teachers do And try to force-feed into you. Facts and figures, reading, writing, None of which are that exciting. So let me put your mind at ease: Be just as awful as you please. The thing that you should bear in mind Is that they too were once unkind As children - kids are born that way And love to make their teachers pay. But not all teachers cower and flee When faced with such delinquency. Some, like the one we’re soon to meet, Can make you stupor in your seat And chill your bones beyond compare With just a single icy stare. And so without further ado Allow me to present to you A teacher who will make you glad Yours are not like him. One so bad That should he leave this mortal coil And go to hell, where rivers boil With blood and lost souls writhe in pain And never see the light again - If faced with this monstrosity They’d send him back ASAP And right back up to earth he’d come For hell’s not fierce enough for some. This teacher’s name was Mr Stout, Though if you met him you would doubt That such a name belonged to him For Mr Stout was paper-thin. If you should ever happen to Catch sight of him from side-on view You might have thought (or even feared) That Mr Stout had disappeared. ‘A sudden gust of wind,’ you’d say, ‘Would blow the fellow clean away As certainly as strong winds might Lift up and blow away a kite.’ But just in case, as well you might, You’d started to lament his plight And feel some sort of sorrow for This teacher, let me tell you more: What I had not explained to you As I shall now begin to do Is Mr Stout was not a shrinking Violet if that’s what you’re thinking. While I’ll grant you this mistake Would be an easy one to make Allow me to assure you that No boy or girl who ever sat In Mr Stout’s class for a year Would shed a single salty tear If any misfortune befell A man they wouldn’t take in hell. As I was saying, any child Who looked at him and thought him mild In manner, moderate and meek, Infirm, exhausted, frail or weak, Would learn they had misjudged their foe And find themselves beset by woe. Don’t take my word for it - I’ll tell You what he did to Simon Snell (The details of his death are such I shouldn’t really say too much. At least enough to get the gist: A lovely boy, and sadly missed). Oh, how his mother cried and cried For when he died she died inside. On Simon’s last day on this earth Not twelve years onward from his birth He stood a blithe and joyous lad But there was one problem he had: It may not seem so bad to some But Simon loved his chewing gum And even come his suppertime The cooking may have been sublime And often was, but nonetheless, To his mum’s obvious distress, If you looked close you’d catch a peek Of gum still sitting in his cheek. Now even Simon knew that if A certain teacher caught a whiff Of chewing gum the consequences Would be utterly horrendous. So it remains a mystery That on this Tuesday he should be So silly to walk in blasé And chewing gum along the way. So when he sat down in his chair He hadn’t noticed, over there, That Mr Stout was moving quick To grab his favourite pointing stick And, finding it, in one swift action (And a certain satisfaction) Sent the sharp stick travelling As true as any javelin, And through the air it smartly sped To end its flight in Simon’s head. The classroom sat in deathly silence, Frozen by an act of violence So extreme and beastly there Was nothing one could do but stare. Poor Simon’s mouth was open wide (For now it had a stick inside) And this part is completely true, I absolutely promise you, The pointy stick thingamajig That rendered him a spit-roast pig Was thrown with such velocity And frightening ferocity And accuracy that right at The end the chewing gum still sat. The gum, once green, was now blood-red And Simon, once alive, now dead. And so it’s no surprise that we Would only be too pleased to see A downfall doubly horrific For him - that would be terrific! As luck would have it stick around A while and listen and you’re bound To relish hearing all about The dismal death of Mr Stout. So here we go: it happened while He patiently awaited trial For murder - this was not the first Crime he’d committed (or the worst). Where this once differed from the rest Is if you kill someone it’s best To see to it that there aren’t any Witnesses; but there was Kenny Cunningham; and Myra Higgins; Kelly Brown; and Charlie Wiggins; Freddy Henderson; in fact Twenty two kids to be exact, And each one let their voice be heard In memory of the twenty third. The only minor complication Came with all the legislation. Did you know that you can kill Someone this viciously and still Be free to go about your days While prosecuors build a case? And so it came to pass although A life was ended, even so, The class were petrified to learn That Mr Stout would soon return To teach them all until such time As he was sentenced for his crime. And that was just the way it was - (Except it wouldn’t be, because The fates conspired an awful plan To terminate this sinful man). On Mr Stout’s last day alive The classroom clock read 9:05 When fates of great complexity Occurred in Classroom 7C. And this’ll tickle you - the thing To start this whole thing off and bring About a chain reaction started With the recently departed. Though Simon Snell was sound asleep Inside a coffin, six feet deep, He left a little legacy For Mr Stout in 7C. And at exactly five past nine, By destiny’s divine design The teacher dropped his gaze and saw Some chewing gum stuck on the floor. Enraged he leapt out of his seat To where it lay and bent to meet The stale gum, but dash and blast The gum was stuck so firm and fast That no amount of effort could Persuade it to vacate the wood. But undeterred he tried to peel The gum away with added zeal, And pinching, pulling, yanking just a- -bout as much as he could muster Mr Stout pulled back. But though The gum relented he had no Real balance to protect himself From falling back into a shelf, One end of which in turn up-ending Suddenly and swiftly sending Textbooks tumbling and crashing Quickly downwards, each one bashing Mr Stout about the head, To send him staggering instead Into the trophy cabinet With understandable regret. For face-first through the frame he found Himself, which made a crashing sound Of shattered glass and trophies falling On him - which would be appalling Were he not himself ferocious, Foul, ill-tempered and atrocious. And now the other way fell he To suffer more calamity, A casually placed rucksack Enough to send him charging back Again in pain from whence he came, Off-balance, bloodied, blind and lame And helpless in his doomed rampage Head-first into the gerbil cage. The gerbils, hitherto unknown To be a danger, now full-grown And threatened by this rude intrusion Reached the obvious conclusion This intruder meant them harm And promptly bit him on the arm And shoulder, ear and neck and nose And chewed whichever part they chose, To make poor Mr Stout appear Like a gerbil chandelier As each hung on for dear life With teeth as sharp as any knife. So in this awful, wretched state He headed for his final fate (Beheaded I should really say, Though that may give the game away). And every pair of eyes looked on At this explosive carry-on. The children hypnotised, amazed, As Mr Stout, confused and dazed, Traversed the classroom once again Directly for the window pane. But no applauding if you please For though he landed on his knees Bent-double this was actually (Though this sounds funny, naturally) His lucky day - there was no sound Of broken glass hitting the ground. The window has been opened wide And Mr Stout’s head, now outside, Was sunken low in sheer relief. But this reprieve was only brief. I’m sorry - did I say just now His lucky day? I don’t know how I managed to make that mistake: Although the window didn’t break When Mr Stout’s bald head fell through The pane inside it split in two And chopped his head right off as clean And quickly as a guillotine. And that, my fiendish little friends, Is where this gory story ends. Our teacher dead, his life undone By Simon Snell’s old chewing gum. Alive one minute, then a burst Of rage; he lost his temper first; Then lost his mind; then lost his head Quite literally, and now he’s dead. And not a single mourner save His mother hovered by his grave As he was laid to rest - and she Was only there so she could see For certain he was really gone (She liked him less than anyone!). And there’s no secret message here, No moral to obey or fear, No lesson you should take on board Except, in lessons, when you’re bored And think you’ve had enough and curse Your rotten luck, it could be worse. Your teachers may not be much fun But, after all is said and done, You’re all much better off without The awful likes of Mr Stout. But I assure you, I insist That teachers like him do exist, And if your luck is very cruel Someone like this works at your school. So sit up straight and pay attention - There are worse things than detention. Teachers evil through and through Could even be the death of you. |