The Class

They’re talking,
Reminiscing about things they’d seen
On last night’s TV.
Some scribble, drawing symbols of what they wear,
Writing names of those they think they love.
My ears pricked up,
When things of old are mentioned,
Wondering how they know
Such obscure souls
Ancient before they were known.
Now one of them sings – hums
A song that makes some of the others
Tap their fingers on their desk.
One speaks with passion
Something relating to politics;
A killer.

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