School - a poem by Chris Penfold Brown
Yes I was sent but didn’t want to go,
Walking a mile through the rain and snow,
Let me go to work please Mum, I would say,
Or maybe in my bed, I’d prefer to lay.
Out in the playground was the worst place,
The bitterness and hatred I could taste,
I never understood why they were so bad,
All day long they would make me feel sad.
I was the only Gypsy there at the time,
They wanted my soul, but I would never sign,
All dressed up in their grey and blue,
How I wished I’d had a uniform too!
But in a red woollen suit I was sent,
Every stitch knitted with love, but never lent,
I would stand out like a sore thumb,
Oh! I wished more Gypsies would come.
They stood there in the playground,
Just watching, never making a sound,
Could have stopped it at anytime,
But their hearts were never that kind.
They let those children make up the song,
All the teachers knew it was wrong,
A blind eye and a turned back,
Then and now, that is a fact.
But I thank them now, my folks so wise,
Uniform I could have had, but they saw the prize,
The prize was to be mine, the prize of life,
Because now its full, and without any strife.
By Chris Penfold Brown