Twas the night before strikeday
and all through the schools
not a creature was stirring
no year ten fools
the banners were hung
by the schoolgates with care
in the hope that no teachers
would walk by there
the teachers were snuggled
all up in their beds
with dreams of marking
in piles in their heads
And then a noise
from beside them did scream
and rudely interrupted
their placid dreams
alas, an alarm,
forgot to unset
provided unwelcome,
6 o'clock threat
but then, a memory
a inkling of reason
a moment, lo, day,
of institutional treason
Oh joy, oh wonder
oh sheer delight
a day in the bedclothes
no marking in sight
but whats that that sits
in the corner disdainful
a stack of bad essays
whose grammar is painful
but the union rep said
no work to be done
so they'll open on Sunday
at a quarter to one
its not a day off
they say; its a shout in the dark
while everyone in briefing
wonders on thorpe park
but what is the point?
the kids'll be there
and the last thing you want
is them in your hair
Instead we'll shy away
from what moves outside
and instead of accusation
of shirking we'll hide
under blankets and duvets
and let the phone ring
and convince ourselves
that strikes really mean
anything.
