The Tawdry Apostrophe (Extended Metaphor) Part 6 Poem by Philip Housiaux

One pupil with greater confidence, a future doctor, or lawyer
or perhaps someone noble like a scientist, stiffens, pipes up:
Sir, Mum’s Greek conjugations and Dad’s trigonometry
are all good for me and fun, but sup this potion no
for your apostrophe makes me age unnaturally,
and strepheins me into something I do not want to be.

Replying, society’s guide protector wields his razor:
boy, you have until your eighteen to earn your mentors trust
what doesn’t kill strepheins, the will unseen we look for
while refusal labels you worse than a draft-dodging failure.

Sir I may break and run, the Euro tunnel is near
intending to declare myself a strephein refugee.

Impossible boy, haven’t you learnt a thing this morning:
Power, righteous it needs not, but confound and entertain it should.
Only the foolish wish they can approach with other than a kiss or bullet.
Anyway, next week I’m doing “whose” and “who’s”, “its” and “it’s”.

Epilogue
Shock and awe
gulf war two
next time it will be your apo
if you don’t kneel our law.