Good Boys

My teacher had,
A poky boned face,
Yellow stained cheeks,
Whiskers on her chin,
And,
Tobacco tinted yellowing hair,
Her eyes like piss holes in the snow,
Darted like ping pong balls,
In all directions,
She stank,
Incontinence was her closest friend,
The stain went before her,
Thin crinkled legs hung below her desk,
She usually held her legs apart,
Watching us, watching her,
She was a filthy cow,
She watched us and pressed her tits together,
Often she didn't wear knickers,
I was lucky, sitting at the back,
The boys in the front looked at her open legs,
She looked back at them,
And pressed her tits together,
Sometimes she held the wooden blackboard cleaner against her cunt,
and wiggled in her chair,
And all out of sight, under her desk,
She would smile and look me in the eye,
And wiggle more,
And smile,
And smile,
I was 11 years old,
I was terrified,
I cried at night,
I was frightened of her,
She told me I could go for a ride in her Morris Minor, if I was a good boy,
I didn't go,
Some boys did,
She said they were "Good boys".




Poetry by JohnJohn
Read 688 times
Written on 2016-04-22 at 21:11

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Kathy Lockhart
Oh, how frightening. Those images were were alive! Those children, that boy, the narrator, the monstrous crazy witch of a teacher was alive and trampling through my head sending terrible shivers down my spine! Need I say more? Ooooo.
2016-04-27