If you yawn, the piano teacher will slap you
“Oh thee my lord
The giving god
My thirst soul doth pine
Oh when shall I behold thy face
Thou ma-a-aa-jesty divine
Why restless why cast down my soul
Daa dee dah dah dah dah
The glory of
Is now is now
And thy refreshing grace…”
Eyes closed. Saying the Os and As properly. Singing out. Stretching. Enunciating. A batch of girls in the auditorium. Tunics and ties and hands behind the back. Mrs.Madan at the piano. Banging the keys furiously, her petite frame shivering. Lazy afternoon passing by. Sports field empty. Someone’s geography class going on. Someone’s needlework class. Someone's biology teacher throwing the aorta and ventricles heart diagram across the class. Someone making a moustache on another with a green marker. Someone reading Great Expectations aloud while everyone builds a low opinin of Pip and wishes to be Estella. Someone dropping a little Hydrogen Sulphide and releasing 'rotten egg smell'. Someone sharing a crepe bandage smeared with Soframycin. Somewhere the art teacher with a pearl necklace interrupted by plastic strawberries, teaching a student how to let the purple flow into the pink to make the most real looking sweetpea flower. Sweetpea stalks on everyone’s desks heaving and sighing. Dying as they are painted in the heat. “For next week children, we will do the cosmos flower.”