Welcome to Kalpa...

Where every class is free,
Where every board is black,
And every wall is green.
Rotten are the snacks,
And dried-up are the trees.
The ceilings all bear cracks,
And the hinges all lack grease.

Where swimming is a curse,
And basketball a dream,
Where a bus is like a hearse,
And the tea is only cream.
Where the office-folk do durst
To rob you of your gleam.
Where swearing is diverse
And words emerge in streams.

Where the chairs creak and shudder
Under the feeblest weight,
Like an ancient cow’s udder
Or as old a shipping crate.
The fans do squeak and mutter
And threaten to add “late”
Before your name – you’re in a gutter,
Where your classmates, too, parade.

Where the curtains are but rags,
And the computers hollow shells.
Where the roof resembles crags
And the rest of the school hell.
Purloined are the teachers’ bags
And jarring are the school bells.
The bus drivers are all fags,
And in caves the ayas dwell.

Where the bulletin boards do bear
Convoluted messages and shit.
Where the management wouldn’t care
If the school fell apart bit by bit.
Where the science labs must share
Their little science kits,
And the Director does prepare
To seek for Kalpa the highest bid.

At the end of the day we’re tired,
Dead tired of this so-called school,
Which in no case can be admired,
Even by the crassest fool.
It’s about time to retire
And set aside the tool.
The situation here is dire,
And yet they all act cool.