Thirteen years has made a tradition
Of itchy shirts and eyes cast down
Of umbrella hair and thick underpants
Of pencil shavings and cheese-and-jam-sandwiches
Of fingers jammed in the hinges of smiling faces.

I stand in the centre of a football field
I am patted on the head
I am told to stand up straight
I am asked to catch the ball
I am hit in the face, the face.

Trumpets cry and spit at me
The cymbals rock and hiss
Creating the perfect cadence
Into sweet, sweet loneliness.