Broken desk Chipped piece of wood Class-room stars for being good.
Window-pane of broken glass Playground overgrown with grass. Wood-weeded patch Shed-doors with a shattered latch.
Slime on the roof and fractured ceiling Distempered walls and paint that's pealing.
A disjoined epitaph unfurled To an innocent lost world Expectant dreams, their parents' joy A memory that will never cloy.
Learning, books and literary pride A rusted globe where continents collide
The class-clock has stopped at ten to something To what? The hour-hand's gone missing.
The teacher's chair, three-legged and worn The yard-tarmac's cracked But not for long. Soon it will be a shop's foundation - A step to cultural degradation.
The chalk-scratched goal-post of a football game Leaf-sheltered corner with a climbing-frame.
But scribbled on a toilet-lid The names and price of girls that did Allow the boys to look at their private Part. For just a tanner - little Joanna Would strip quite bare And fart. While Molly Moores would drop her drawers For a bite of pie and A custard tart.
Carol Brown for half-a-crown Did what no scribe had dared write down Sweet Sylvia O'Neill would scream and squeal In mock of adults' lustful zeal She was the playground's queen Of things that really were obscene - For popularity not pay - "Shag-bag O'Neill" is what the schoolboy writers say.
Among the artichokes and onions Boys fought in fistic-imitation Of what they themselves had seen In father's boxing magazine.
Marbles, catch and jacks Frisbees-thrown and bubbles-blown Have left no record of their own.
By the roller on the mud-stepped lawn With its tattered top half-shorn .......
Come child Stop looking at those things Relics of a time we do not need to know. Come child Granny wants us home to tea And Grandad has some things to show Of what they did today. Let the past rust In its own dust. Away with me Please come.
But Mummy Your name's Sylvia And you were born O'Neill.