Once more into the week, dear friends, once more;
Or close the Cloud up with our Teacher dead.
On Saturday there’s nothing so becomes a teacher
As a spot of shopping and an artisanal beer:
But when the blast of the school bell blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the Champion;
Stiffen the sinews, wake and shake,
Disguise knackeredness with hard-favour’d smile;
Then lend the eye The Look;
Let’s pry through the portage of teachit.co.uk
For a massive wordsearch; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a Sunday evening
O’erhang and jutty its confounded meandering through Homebase,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful cutting up and laminating of a Find Someone Who.
Now brush the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Pluck the nostril hairs and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest Teacher.
Whose blood is fet from parents what did supply!
Parents that, like so many supply teachers,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their red pens for lack of hours:
Dishonour not your SLT; now attest
That those whom you call’d fathers did grade your lesson.
Borrow their photocopier code, make copy,
And teach them how to partition. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in Roehampton, show us here
The mettle of your Circle Time; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so browned off or fizzed-up on Nativity,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. Gamification’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for sleep, Netflix, and Saint Estelle!’
Exeunt. Alarum, and Nissans drive off