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At swimming once,I went to turn from front to backand just kept turning,just kept turning,turning over,over and over,till the swimming teacher said,
Dog in the playground:Oh, no he don’t.He’ll come with me,You see if he won’t.
Don't move the goalposts.Leave them as they are.
Well, maybe this much wider.Now you've gone too far.
In a bit more. Stop.OK, that'll do.
Billy chased me round the playgroundwith hands full of fists
Billy yelled at me across the football pitchwith a mouth full of stings.
It's five past three.Sixty-four eyes look at me.No. Sixty-two.Not Matthew.He hasn't learnt to read my face.He's got digital. A disgrace!I reach to ten.
The building is white,ivy eating its way up the broken walls,windows smalland scratched.
Miss Flotsam was my reception teacher.She had travelled the world.Brown hair turned goldenunder distant suns,clothes carrying colours
We goin' on a school trip today,De whole class goin' to Whitney Bay,Ah teckin' me ball an' bat with meTo play beach cricket, an' let me see,
Well I shouldn’t’ve been playin’ really Only there to watch me brotherMy friend fancies his friend, y’know.Anyway they was a man short.
In the line you hear a chatter.Up and down a clatter, clatter.Noisy schoolgirls scream and shout,pushing in and pushing out.