So Long Mr Stout

Oh what a sorry lot in life
To be a teacher.  All that strife,
Guffawing, talking, all that noise
(And girls are just as bad as boys).

So while poor teachers fret in vain
And try their hardest to explain
About all sorts of things: equations;
Languages of all persuasions;
Arts and music; science - we
Don’t get just one of them, there’s three;
But chemistry’s a bitter chore,
Biology a dreadful bore,
And they might be the best ones - physics
Is like reading hieroglyphics.

So little wonder then at all
That kids just want to have a ball
And never bother thinking just
How awfully difficult it must
Be to walk through that classroom door
And come back the next day for more.

But this is not a lecture I
Assure you.  Let me tell you why:

I’m not one tiny little bit
Ashamed to openly admit
That I was once a horrid boy
Who used to heartily enjoy
His time as a precocious brat -
And there is nothing wrong with that!
Being wicked, vile and rotten
Is not easily forgotten.

For we all know what teachers do
And try to force-feed into you.
Facts and figures, reading, writing,
None of which are that exciting.

So let me put your mind at ease:
Be just as awful as you please.
The thing that you should bear in mind
Is that they too were once unkind
As children - kids are born that way
And love to make their teachers pay.

But not all teachers cower and flee
When faced with such delinquency.
Some, like the one we’re soon to meet,
Can make you stupor in your seat
And chill your bones beyond compare
With just a single icy stare.

And so without further ado
Allow me to present to you
A teacher who will make you glad
Yours are not like him.  One so bad
That should he leave this mortal coil
And go to hell, where rivers boil
With blood and lost souls writhe in pain
And never see the light again -
If faced with this monstrosity
They’d send him back ASAP
And right back up to earth he’d come
For hell’s not fierce enough for some.

This teacher’s name was Mr Stout,
Though if you met him you would doubt
That such a name belonged to him
For Mr Stout was paper-thin.

If you should ever happen to
Catch sight of him from side-on view
You might have thought (or even feared)
That Mr Stout had disappeared.
‘A sudden gust of wind,’ you’d say,
‘Would blow the fellow clean away
As certainly as strong winds might
Lift up and blow away a kite.’

But just in case, as well you might,
You’d started to lament his plight
And feel some sort of sorrow for
This teacher, let me tell you more:

What I had not explained to you
As I shall now begin to do
Is Mr Stout was not a shrinking
Violet if that’s what you’re thinking.

While I’ll grant you this mistake
Would be an easy one to make
Allow me to assure you that
No boy or girl who ever sat
In Mr Stout’s class for a year
Would shed a single salty tear
If any misfortune befell
A man they wouldn’t take in hell.

As I was saying, any child
Who looked at him and thought him mild
In manner, moderate and meek,
Infirm, exhausted, frail or weak,
Would learn they had misjudged their foe
And find themselves beset by woe.

Don’t take my word for it - I’ll tell
You what he did to Simon Snell
(The details of his death are such
I shouldn’t really say too much.
At least enough to get the gist:
A lovely boy, and sadly missed).
Oh, how his mother cried and cried
For when he died she died inside.

On Simon’s last day on this earth
Not twelve years onward from his birth
He stood a blithe and joyous lad
But there was one problem he had:
It may not seem so bad to some
But Simon loved his chewing gum
And even come his suppertime
The cooking may have been sublime
And often was, but nonetheless,
To his mum’s obvious distress,
If you looked close you’d catch a peek
Of gum still sitting in his cheek.

Now even Simon knew that if
A certain teacher caught a whiff
Of chewing gum the consequences
Would be utterly horrendous.

So it remains a mystery
That on this Tuesday he should be
So silly to walk in blasé
And chewing gum along the way.

So when he sat down in his chair
He hadn’t noticed, over there,
That Mr Stout was moving quick
To grab his favourite pointing stick
And, finding it, in one swift action
(And a certain satisfaction)
Sent the sharp stick travelling
As true as any javelin,
And through the air it smartly sped
To end its flight in Simon’s head.

The classroom sat in deathly silence,
Frozen by an act of violence
So extreme and beastly there
Was nothing one could do but stare.

Poor Simon’s mouth was open wide
(For now it had a stick inside)
And this part is completely true,
I absolutely promise you,
The pointy stick thingamajig
That rendered him a spit-roast pig
Was thrown with such velocity
And frightening ferocity
And accuracy that right at
The end the chewing gum still sat.

The gum, once green, was now blood-red
And Simon, once alive, now dead.

And so it’s no surprise that we
Would only be too pleased to see
A downfall doubly horrific
For him - that would be terrific!

As luck would have it stick around
A while and listen and you’re bound
To relish hearing all about
The dismal death of Mr Stout.

So here we go: it happened while
He patiently awaited trial
For murder - this was not the first
Crime he’d committed (or the worst).
Where this once differed from the rest
Is if you kill someone it’s best
To see to it that there aren’t any
Witnesses; but there was Kenny
Cunningham; and Myra Higgins;
Kelly Brown; and Charlie Wiggins;
Freddy Henderson; in fact
Twenty two kids to be exact,
And each one let their voice be heard
In memory of the twenty third.

The only minor complication
Came with all the legislation.
Did you know that you can kill
Someone this viciously and still
Be free to go about your days
While prosecuors build a case?

And so it came to pass although
A life was ended, even so,
The class were petrified to learn
That Mr Stout would soon return
To teach them all until such time
As he was sentenced for his crime.
And that was just the way it was -
(Except it wouldn’t be, because
The fates conspired an awful plan
To terminate this sinful man).

On Mr Stout’s last day alive
The classroom clock read 9:05
When fates of great complexity
Occurred in Classroom 7C.

And this’ll tickle you - the thing
To start this whole thing off and bring
About a chain reaction started
With the recently departed.

Though Simon Snell was sound asleep
Inside a coffin, six feet deep,
He left a little legacy
For Mr Stout in 7C.

And at exactly five past nine,
By destiny’s divine design
The teacher dropped his gaze and saw
Some chewing gum stuck on the floor.

Enraged he leapt out of his seat
To where it lay and bent to meet
The stale gum, but dash and blast
The gum was stuck so firm and fast
That no amount of effort could
Persuade it to vacate the wood.

But undeterred he tried to peel
The gum away with added zeal,
And pinching, pulling, yanking just a-
-bout as much as he could muster
Mr Stout pulled back.  But though
The gum relented he had no
Real balance to protect himself
From falling back into a shelf,
One end of which in turn up-ending
Suddenly and swiftly sending
Textbooks tumbling and crashing
Quickly downwards, each one bashing
Mr Stout about the head,
To send him staggering instead
Into the trophy cabinet
With understandable regret.
For face-first through the frame he found
Himself, which made a crashing sound
Of shattered glass and trophies falling
On him - which would be appalling
Were he not himself ferocious,
Foul, ill-tempered and atrocious.

And now the other way fell he
To suffer more calamity,
A casually placed rucksack
Enough to send him charging back
Again in pain from whence he came,
Off-balance, bloodied, blind and lame
And helpless in his doomed rampage
Head-first into the gerbil cage.

The gerbils, hitherto unknown
To be a danger, now full-grown
And threatened by this rude intrusion
Reached the obvious conclusion
This intruder meant them harm
And promptly bit him on the arm
And shoulder, ear and neck and nose
And chewed whichever part they chose,
To make poor Mr Stout appear
Like a gerbil chandelier
As each hung on for dear life
With teeth as sharp as any knife.

So in this awful, wretched state
He headed for his final fate
(Beheaded I should really say,
Though that may give the game away).

And every pair of eyes looked on
At this explosive carry-on.
The children hypnotised, amazed,
As Mr Stout, confused and dazed,
Traversed the classroom once again
Directly for the window pane.

But no applauding if you please
For though he landed on his knees
Bent-double this was actually
(Though this sounds funny, naturally)
His lucky day - there was no sound
Of broken glass hitting the ground.
The window has been opened wide
And Mr Stout’s head, now outside,
Was sunken low in sheer relief.

But this reprieve was only brief.

I’m sorry - did I say just now
His lucky day?  I don’t know how
I managed to make that mistake:

Although the window didn’t break
When Mr Stout’s bald head fell through
The pane inside it split in two
And chopped his head right off as clean
And quickly as a guillotine.

And that, my fiendish little friends,
Is where this gory story ends.
Our teacher dead, his life undone
By Simon Snell’s old chewing gum.

Alive one minute, then a burst
Of rage; he lost his temper first;
Then lost his mind; then lost his head
Quite literally, and now he’s dead.

And not a single mourner save
His mother hovered by his grave
As he was laid to rest - and she
Was only there so she could see
For certain he was really gone
(She liked him less than anyone!).

And there’s no secret message here,
No moral to obey or fear,
No lesson you should take on board
Except, in lessons, when you’re bored
And think you’ve had enough and curse
Your rotten luck, it could be worse.

Your teachers may not be much fun
But, after all is said and done,
You’re all much better off without
The awful likes of Mr Stout.

But I assure you, I insist
That teachers like him do exist,
And if your luck is very cruel
Someone like this works at your school.

So sit up straight and pay attention -
There are worse things than detention.
Teachers evil through and through
Could even be the death of you.