No hallowed halls, no leafy ways
No cloistered strolls no verdant fields
Just concrete paths and freezing rain
With a long walk there, then back again
And, late each day, I’d get the cane
From teachers freshly back from slaying

The men who’d just laid down their guns
And sour old hags who’d lost their sons
No valid teaching was the rule
Instead to keep us well subdued
A sacred doctrine merged with sums
Enforced our righteous servitude

No witty, bright and in touch tutors
Who’d bit off more than they could chew
But one-eyed, half-arsed over-reachers
Who snarled and spat religious speeches
And relied upon the power of stick
To get them through their daily trick

Just drunken priests and hoary nuns
Who practiced hate while preaching love
And taught us fun could not be good.
Those hypocrites with fading sight
Who warned us of the consequence,
Of practicing to masturbate

No pleasant strolls, no witty chats
Just get it right and get a pat
Or get it wrong and test your fate
In that daily fight to obviate
The awful numbness of the bum
And the wretched boring tedium

No memories of joyful times
Just messages from moaning drones
And dreadful loathsome dreary days
When disenchantment was the norm
And everything I ever learned
Was what I taught myself

(c) P F Mayne