Fiction

Sidney the Swot


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