Sidney the Swot
Never ever made a blot
And Sidney always got Grade As;
But Sidney the Swot
Was a horrid little tot
Who never ever mended his ways.
He played with words
Like a cat with birds,
And though he knew the dictionary well,
He had to pun
To have his fun
And deliberately used to misspell.
He played sicker, not soccer,
Used a liquor, not a locker,
And sometimes, just to get the bull rolling,
He’d drive his frond
Around the bond
By taking him ten pig bowling.
He ate finch and chimps,
Took two sugar limps,
And always used a pan to sign his gnome;
He stuck stumps on his litters,
And walked his digs (rod sitters)
Around the pork, across the gross and home.
But the god of Proper Spelling
Overheard young Sid Swot yelling
For his favourite sport – ace hickey – and right there
Also heard Sid’s English teacher,
The frantic Mrs Beecher,
Offer up a final desperate prayer.
‘Oh, please stop Sid abusing
All the words he should be using
In the proper manner like his Dad and Mum.’
And the god took his revenge
On a school trip to Stonehenge
The day Sid Swot got run down by a bum.
Picture source: Daniel Oines