When I, bedward, to prepare for a new day
I still get an awful feeling, here, inside,
generated by a time that's gone away
but so strongly instilled that that still resides.
'' Thou! Shalt! Not! Be! Late! '' struck terror to heart
each word thrashed out with his cane on his desk
each bang, each word, made every one of us... start!
at the foulness of that teacher, grotesque.
Awake, hour after hour, in my bed, I did
as a kid, lying there, delirious with fear,
all those years passing and me, still not rid
of that cane, smacking down upon my rear.
If only I had known the word ' Uhtceare '
and shouted it out as he administered pain
and '' you're nowt but a rotten Snollygoster! ''
'' your Trumpery phrase has Zwodder'd me, again! ''