Nobody understands apathy better than a fourteen year old eighth grade boy, especially such a boy who is an inmate in a boys school in the shadow of one of the most beautiful Anglican cathedrals in America.  Ironic apathy. With some instruction from pages 291-292 of Stephen Fry’s The Ode Less Travelled on the very topic of preparing a Shakespearean sonnet, and some assist from the Oxford Rhyming Dictionary, our gentleman scholar rocked the flighty picky English teacher. Said teacher of the low-cut tops and too short skirts whose charges spend more time in desk chairs tucked under their tables than they would in one of the Master’s classrooms.

My Sonnet

Sometimes, here at school, I feel apathy.
It is a feeling I try to disregard.
But teachers, they want a polymathy.
Sometimes, it feels as bleak as a graveyard.
To be all-knowing would be a blessing.
For a long time I have felt distress.
T’would be nice to see my problems passing.
Or have a life of fear much less.
For others who have a life uncommon,
and find themselves in disrepair,
To them I say, “Go see a Shaman”
If you find your life unfair.
Ya know, I really wish I had a getaway.
Oh, what the hell. Does it matter anyway?

(c) GoshGusMusic(ascap) 2010