Howard Linton Poem by Richard George

Eleven, and hyperactive:
The classroom rang with his voice,
His great round head split with smiles.
He never remembered his books, his pen:
He couldn't sit still for thirty seconds.
But the school treated his problem
'As a disciplinary matter'
And they didn't like West Indians.
So they disciplined Howard Linton
And disciplined him again:
And little by little
He lost his smile
And muttered of heavyweight boxers
And wrote one-syllable graffiti.
Howard Linton, the last I heard,
Was detained at Her Majesty's pleasure,
The eighteen-year-old look-out
In an armed robbery.
His classroom is a cell,
His teachers prison guards.