I can see myself at seventeen,
we’ve relocated down to Bristol.
My new school is not my scene
and what I’ve got to do is crystal-clear to me.
So I go to the school deputy, the deputy headmaster:
‘Mr Sculthorpe, I am off to get a job, I’ve got to go.’
He smiles and says ‘Stay on a while,
at least secure a job before you go.’
But I want to go much faster
and I say, ‘No.’
He’d prefer, ‘No Sir’ but doesn’t say.
I’m seventeen and stupid and I get on my way.
But, I cannot get a job although I try and try,
I feel it’s a disaster and I cry and cry,
‘Dad, will you stop trying to console me!’
Then I decide to stuff my pride,
I’ll go to Mr Sculthorpe and I’ll see if he’ll agree to re-enrol me.
Knocking on his door, I’m sure I’ll be as welcome as a rat.
But he makes me feel I’m wanted:
I’m seventeen and stupid, he knows that.
‘We’re here to teach you.
We’re here to reach you,
even though you’re seventeen and stupid.’
But now I am no longer in that state.
Now I’m stupid and I’m fifty-eight.