School’s out, but here’s a school poem from 1983:

GRAMMAR

There’s a new school where all the pictures hang crooked. The hallways smell of scratched vinyl to the dead soul in the stroller with the round head that wants to be round. Also, a terrific crowding. Crowds. Dancing asses. The girls throw away their crinolines. The boys drink sweeter stolen water. Kids on payphones yelling and yelling. Kids in showers see elder features in taped mirror, putting on their “underfarbs.” Bladders so full back teeth float, but night whistles to small horses, small horses to kids. And the kid in the devil costume sells poppers to passers-by.

“I see London,” they say, hear a slow sliding sound, “see France,” an unsightly rash. The queen of home in silver bikini and plumed headdress rides a baton, is the parade. At recess, the minority expresses herself against a brick wall. Cyclone fence cliques with hair clash with science types with digital watches. Bell tolls now and then for everyone. Binders so full back pages float. Homeroom period, the girl with no sex yet sits in back and all slam desks. Teacher turns grim and claws green, snorts smoke and ruler raps, clacks tongue and shoes down hall to principal. All are calm and bright. Globes. girl draws horse and it’s sloppy, she says it’s a “cartoon” horse. Turtle tank of football boys, scholastic book services, selected reading assignments, gold stars. White lines on cement, meaning games are reward or punishment for the kid who dreams flying over foursquare and no more teasing.