In the classrooms of the damned

D. David Croot has been writing on and off (pretty much continually) for nineteen hundred years. He is no preternatural creature, no real special abilities or heightened desires to speak of, but he’s put in his four-trillion hours and it’s all for you my sweaty precious and sublimely beautiful creatures.

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We believed him to be unusual

Turn out to be a pedophile

Nose of a crocodile

Personality of the sleuth

Body of an apricot stretched out

Glasses, glasses but could never quite see

He had no voice so to speak

His arms were short

Everything was perennially out of reach

So timid and shy

This nothing guy

Hung out with another

Fat fat fat and rotund

Destined to stun the un-stunned

Run fat fat oh how he run(ned)

To his father at lunchtime

His feet had no rhythm his grammar non too divine

Said he could knock Muhammad Ali out in his prime