Back again my pretty creepy crawley 

With school start and hair washed- 

It doesn’t matter. 

You discriminate not though many on your behalf do 

They shout “You filth” and they do not mean you. 

The psychosomatic impulse 

The hand that reaches, scratches, passes back to point 

And waits 

The tendency engorged by fitful, fanciful, frantic 


And back again to torment, Cos that is what you do. 

The morning’s bus-stop-wait inspection 

The routine, the chore imposed. 

Each itch, each scratch, questioned 

Queried, curious, cautious 

And paranoid, yes paranoid, 

The present you endow. 


© TheHairyTeacher 2017

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