In Mr. Charlton's office,
tobacco walled
ocean ripples
repeating in identical pattern.
School awake,
12.25pm, late for lunch
A panel of hungry eyes
Supersize desk with the sun
submissive against the window
box.
Sir, I admit to 'alf
the offence - i had on a white cotton shirt,
buttoned up and tucked in
ta' grey trousers, sir. What's so wrong
in tha'? Grey trousers like the kind
we wear on Sundays,
the kind we travel in -
dignified looking trousers, sir
that i just ironed this mornin'.
It ain' the black your rules
tell us to wear - i know. But the material
is weak
it's always sportin' holes. I won't learn
in rags, sir! My mother's raised me
better than that.
So i plead guilty to shame
and good pride - splashin' cologne
on me' chest each morning and
never borin' my ears or growing
me hair buzzed like them criminals today
who sit eatin' their lunch
to disturb peace once they've done.
I notice i don't see them
in disciplinary today, i guess
bad men're never out of uniform;
always wear the same dirty hood
and cut up boots, provin'
that they come from nowhere
and answer to nobody. Sir,
I plead guilty
to a pair'a grey trousers
and having a way that says
a man should leave his house
in clothes that don't tear,
clothes he can wear proud
as the daytime sun.
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