i have only spoken to him twice, <br />and he really wasn't very nice, <br />complaining about me <br />dropping litter on the floor, <br />and for running down the corridor. <br /> <br />i have heard when he gets really angry, <br />his moustache wobbles and his nostils flare, <br />but no one ever dare, <br />let him know. <br /> <br />every morning he stands on the stage, <br />moaning and groaning, <br />whilst reading names from a page, <br />of boys who are in all sorts of trouble, <br />recruiting them for bin duty, <br />and cleaning up the rubble. <br /> <br />he is very fat and his trouses are far too short, <br />you can see his white ankles and grey socks, <br /> that mrs headmaster probally bought. <br /> <br />his perfectly ironed shirt is so very tight, <br />is fit to burst and is such a sight, <br />worse still is his coffee breath, <br />which we all call the breath of death. <br /> <br />even the teachers fear him, <br />i've seen them jump out there skin, <br />when he begins to rant and rave, <br />i've heard them mutter <br />'he'll put us early to our grave' <br /> <br />when he is not dishing out detentions, <br />or moaaning about our 'attire' <br />he retreats to his musty office, <br />warming his feet by the electric fire. <br /> <br />he often sits behind his large oak desk, <br />and sighs a heavy sigh, <br />pulling at his hairy moustache, <br />looking like his ready to cry. <br /> <br />never yet have we seen it happen, <br />but what a day it would be, <br />to see that great fat whale, <br />blubbering with all the school to see!<br /><br />Not Long Left<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/headmaster/
