Mr Him

Monday in the canteen, beans upon a tray, Blazers buttoned up too tight, wishin’ we were away, Silver spoon diplomacy and lukewarm shepherd’s pie, Headmaster’s holdin’ court beneath the Union Jack sky. He clears his throat for Europe and the pound, Talks about “the markets” like we’re duty-bound, We’re seventeen with trainers scuffed and thin, And next to him sits poor old Mr Him. Oh he forgot his name again, Red tie, face like rain, “Pass the salt there… Mister… er…” Silence humming like a spur. Mr Him, Mr Him, That’s what they’re calling him, Business studies martyr with a half-tucked shirt and a nervous grin, Mr Him, Mr Him, Caught in the lion’s den, While the head goes on ’bout Parliament And we just nod and cringe again. “Inflation’s rather tricky,” says the man with the crest, “To understand the nation you must read the Financial Press,” We’re stirring soggy chips around like maps of our despair, While Mr Him just sighs and stares into his chair. He whispers, “Supply and demand,” like a prayer, As the head starts ranting ’bout his mayor, And someone asks what party’s in, The ketchup bottle answers him. Oh he pats him on the back, Calls him “Sport” and that, “Tell the boys about GDP,” We’re chewing on hypocrisy. Mr Him, Mr Him, That’s what they’re calling him, Spreadsheet soldier drowning in a tidal wave of blustered wind, Mr Him, Mr Him, Won’t you cash us in? ’Cause the head’s gone off on foreign trade And no one knows where to begin. It’s awkward as assembly hymns, Polished shoes and trembling chins, He says, “When I was up at Oxford way—” We drop our forks and drift away. Poor Mr Him just meets our eyes, A silent bond in suit and tie, If dignity were shares to sell, He’d buy us out and wish us well. He’ll mark our mocks and draw his graphs, Explain recession aftermaths, But no equation can defend A name forgot in front of friends. Mr Him, Mr Him, Write it on the notice board in biro thin, Business teacher with a backbone bent By accidental pseudonym, Mr Him, Mr Him, We’re standing up for him, When the head says, “What’s your name again?” We’ll shout it loud above the din. Monday fades to final bell, Freedom rings and breaks the spell, Headmaster still explaining spin— But we remember Mr Him. Mr Him… Mr Him… Yeah we remember him.