Pig’s Head on a Stick

‘What are the clues that this is a utopia?’

I ask my class of year eight boys, two dozen:

Black shoes aglow, neat ties clipped on, shirts tucked;  

Above the door, a crucifix and blazon

(From which no small advantage has been sucked);

Before them, fresh, Golding’s island dystopia.

‘May I remove my blazer, sir?’ ‘Sir, what’s

‘Utopia’ mean again?’ ‘Sir, can we open

A window? Jenson’s farted.’ (Turning crimson,

The accused prevaricates.) ‘Sir, there are lots

Of clues the writer means—’ ‘Chat GPT!’

‘—To evoke the Garden of Eden here. However—’

Silence. A senior head pops round. ‘So, how’re

These fine boys getting on, sir?’ ‘Splendidly.’ 

‘So how’s Jack’s tribe now sinking to dystopia?’

I ask my year eight girls: black shoes aglow,

Hair neat and tied, prim blouses pressed and tucked

In skirts that reach the knee (just). ‘Can I show

My conch yet, sir? I got it in St. Lucia.’

A gleaming, innocent thing. The girls, unplucked, 

Ignore me, giggle, pass it round. ‘Sir, can

I go to the toilet?’ ‘Can I fill up?

My bottle, sir?’ ‘Yes. No.’ ‘But sir.’ ‘No, stop.

Jack’s rebel tribe. Let’s focus—Put that down!’

The surreptitious refill goes awry. 

‘Oh, sir,’ the culprit says, ‘You’ve made me wet.’

‘Who’s got my conch?’ ‘Sir, are we bottom set?’

‘Sir, could Jack’s tribe be called a tyranny?’