Tag Archives: girls

1576. Stink bombs

 

As every boy knows (or should know), if you crush the seed of a wattle (some might call a wattle a mimosa or an acacia) and spit on it, it is a stink bomb. Money need not be spent on purchasing stink bombs from the local trick shop. Of course, there might be places in the world where wattle trees won’t grow, such as at the North Pole, so Santa’s elves may have to buy theirs. A spat-upon crushed wattle seed stinks like the most humongous fart. It is colossally funny. It is a marvellous trick to play, especially on girls. (This is in the days before it was decided that both sexes were the same).

Larry and Barnaby were seven-year olds. Larry’s older brother had told him about stink bombs. Larry and Barnaby got some wattle seeds. They crushed them and when they were in the classroom they spat on them, hid them, and waited. What a stink!

The teacher entered the room and everyone stood up. (This was in the old days when pupils stood up when someone important entered the room). The teacher didn’t blink an eye. Pooh! The smell!

“It’s a bit chilly in here,” said the teacher. “Shut the windows.” (This is in the days when classrooms windows could be opened and closed).

“I have to go and see Mrs Turner in Room Seven,” said the teacher. “While I am gone I want you to do Exercise Fourteen on Page Seven.” (This is in the days when pupils could briefly be left on their own to do some work).

The other boys ganged up on Larry and Barnaby. The two boys had to find and pick up the stink bombs and toss them out the window.

This was done. The teacher returned. No one, except for Bianca, had done Exercise Fourteen on Page Seven. Nothing was ever said. (This is in the days when teachers didn’t have to write long reports on every misdemeanour of every child and file it permanently on a computer).

Ah! Stink bombs need not be dealt with again, until next year’s new batch of boys.

Poem 70: Into nothing

All the empires of this world will crumble into nothing.
Strident protests of our time will tumble into nothing.

The homeless in the byways, in makeshift cardboard boxes,
hold out their hands in pleas for bread, fumble into nothing.

Young men in search of meaning in empty, shallow hangouts,
find all their courage dashed as they stumble into nothing.

Vibrant women, scarce seen and rarely heard from day to day,
are told to cook, knit, and sew, and humble into nothing.

Growing boys play in the park; they tussle, combat, battle.
Boys! Don’t fight! and watch your manhood rumble into nothing.

Captured girls sold abroad as slaves are going cheap this year;
their hopes, dreams, and aspirations jumble into nothing.

And Bruce? I know my words won’t echo far in time’s good hands.
I hope a crumb or two might not mumble into nothing.