He sank into their calculations
And snorted on the stench
Of their arithmetic
Looked for the boy who was hanging his head low
More trophies than ideas, to follow their pretence

Wih a scowl in his pocket and a smile on his face
He followed with obedience
And fell in the nettles

Afterwards those spikey whispers said he brought his own rope
And skipped the bits they loathed
Didn't scramble to find a dock leaf to capture back out hope

To advice his mind has closed
He lost all of his footholes

He was a toothpick!
And the garlic and the cinder upon the path
Had failed to blunt or hinder the slow collapse
Clinging to the doorframe he was dragged
Off to a reminder of where he had been

With a smile in his pocket
And a scowl on his face
There was nowhere to flee
So sat content in the nettles