This poem was posted by Michael Billings on the Facebook Page I Survived Wyre Farm School 

This is a piece, which is very appropriate, taken from the first edition of the school magazine dated June 1958 by the editor of the magazine A.Baker.

There's a School down Cleobury way,
Where the masters don't earn their pay.
Soon we'll have them on the run,
So we'll name them one by one.

O, School down Cleobury way,
Where we are slaves every day.
There we will have to stay,
Until we get our Holiday.

I see Mr Lambley having a look,
At his notes on the Doomsday Book,
History is a subject loved by all,
We'd rather be kicking a ball.

I see Mr Lovatt on bended knee,
Playing Mozart's 5th Symphony,
He rubs his hands and smiles with glee,
Because he's so full of ecstasy.

I see Mr Thorne at work on his sums,
He counts on his fingers and uses his thumbs,
He's trying to work out the square root of 9,
By using the tangent and secant and sine.

I see Mr Sterland with his spade,
Digging a plot that's just been made,
The compost heap is close nearby,
Sending out messages to the sky.

I see Mr Clarke with an English book,
Glaring round with a fearful look,
The lesson is on the adverbial clause,
It goes on and on with never a pause.

I see Mr Game at work on a bowl,
A perfect specimen is his goal,
He chips at it here and he chips at it there,
It's not quite round, but then, he's a square.


More to come soon....