Kiddies, death is upon us. This is no joke.

Drop to your knees in the parade ground.

Pray the stains off the walls, the blue out of the sky.

Look at the chalkboards. R.I.P.

See the faces of the teachers. Pale as moons.

And here comes the principal,

dressed like an undertaker.

He comes to bury not to rule this roost.

Sense the tremble of the old brick building.

It’s a coffin lid waiting to slam down.

And look at the books, afraid for their pages.

And the lockers bursting like bodies.

No more homework because no more home.

Nothing to learn for what can the reaper teach

that you don’t feel already.

Kiddies, the school is to close. This is no joke.

So stop laughing. We had to.

— John Grey