Never ask a fifteen year old to write a poem about a regime change.

Or if you do, you need to burn the resulting pile of papers that consitute a poetic howl of hormonal anguish rapidly, before the new headteacher finds the damn things.

My favourite, today, was Osama's poem:

The Senior staff charge in an arrowhead towards the hostile masses
Reluctantly everyone rises hundreds of clones dressed smarlty
Controlled by a hand gesture impelled to respond
As everyone sits a tide of murmurs drifting forward
Each face trying to look less enthusiastic than the next
A routine lecture lasts hours melting everyone's brains
There wish they weren't there to have their spirits crushed
We are constantly trying to reach a summit that keeps growing
Hours of effort lead only to a ledge as far from the summit as ever
Nothing's changed. Nothing ever changes.
The wheels move ceaselessly but remain still.
We are in a rut Forever