by Nick Gisburne
Towards the crusty turrets of the town
A trio of marauders makes its way
Their colour scheme leans badly to the brown
A rotten band of bones and dank decay
They come to find the Master of the school
To make amends for pigs they tried to thieve
To right a wrong, a raider’s golden rule
Which none of them remember or believe
The school has seen unfathomable change
The Master bears the burden on his stump
A living carcass, smeared with mud and mange
His cherished classrooms now a dingy dump
The creaking brigands share the Master’s shame
Then wonder where they are, or why they came
