Back Scratchers

a poem by Christine Anne Shaw, UK

The Probert boy from rainy Wales,
both genius and full time drip,
whose brown eyes blinked at rapid speed,
who'd earned the crown of classroom weed,
he fancied me and I agreed,
to make him look tres hip.

He sat beside me, desk to desk,
'Girl, boy, girl, boy' our teacher cried.
Each Monday morning filled with dread,
those maths equations in my head,
from out my brain they quickly fled,
when tested all hope died.

But Davey couldn't bear to see
the smile erased from my young face.
He whispered that he had a plan,
he'd always been a doting fan,
so through his thoughts he quickly ran
and trumped up with an ace.

He'd mark my papers up for me.
'No worries now, it's all been planned,
on Sunday nights you will sleep well,
those nasty moments of sheer hell,
I promise that I'll never tell,
if you wll take my hand

on Fridays in the main school hall.
A lesson that I do despise,
it's country dancing agony,
as no one ever wants to be
a partner to a wimp like me,'
I heard his anxious sighs.

I kept my word and so did he.
My scores improved a grade or two.
In all it worked a blooming treat,
his ego shot up by three feet,
this little bit of sly deceit.
Why am I telling you.'

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