March in lines of grey ties
Camouflaged in grey and black,
Till on the haunting flares you turn your back
Huddled like old beggars over schoolbooks
While a mind once at play learns to comply
With a system made of every possible lie.
Creativity dim through a misty pane of chalk,
A memory to plunge at me-
Guttering, choking, drowning.
My friend, if you could only see
These shrivelled saints, writhing in unwinding jumpers
Uttering a pledge they are too young to understand-
Being good little girls and boys, placing vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues-
My friend, you would not speak with such high zest,
Of this; our education system:
Dulce et decorum est in discite scholarumarum….